Time Enough and Now
by Lassroyale
Summary: Sequel to 'All Bets Off'. The world doesn't stop turning when the one you love is taken from you. Merlin comes crashing back into Arthur's life...but things have changed.
1. Prologue: Neatly Broken

**Title:** Time Enough and Now: Prologue - "Neatly Broken"  
**Author:** Lassroyale  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Warnings:** blood-play, dub-con, non-con, torture, violence, mentions of addiction, violent death (OC), gore, descriptions of withdrawal  
**Parings:** Merlin/Arthur, Merlin/Brom(OMC), Arthur/Gwen  
**Disclaimer:** The pretty boys don't belong to me - they belong to each other and the BBC of course.  
**SUMMARY:** Sequel to 'All Bets Off'. Prologue: _Sometimes you have to give yourself to keep your sanity. Sometimes it's just easier to adapt._

**A/N:** Herein begins the journey into the sequel to 'All Bets Off'It is recommended you read that fic before you read this one. Chapters will be updated slowly. I'm having things beta'd and am doing edits to make sure everything is cohesive. Bear with me, but I'm hoping for at least one a week or every week and a half. The "real" summary will be posted with chapter one. Also, it might be a little while for chapter 1, but I wanted to give you guys something to wet your palates. ;)

I hope you guys enjoy! Please let me know if you like it.

**Prologue - "Neatly Broken "**

_" I am the voice inside your head . . . And I control you  
I am the lover in your bed . . . And I control you  
I am the sex that you provide . . . And I control you  
I am the hate you try to hide . . . And I control you  
I take you where you want to go  
I give you all you need to know  
I drag you down I use you up"_

-- NIN, "Mr. Self Destruct

***

One year was a long time to fight. It was a lost battle from the beginning, regardless, and when he was dragged through Brom's door that fateful May morning he knew it. Merlin still fought, because that was what Arthur would have done.

Twelve months, however, was a very long time.

He tried to use his magic against Brom at first, in the rare moments of clear-headedness that sometimes descended upon him. To his shame, his magic betrayed him. It failed him at critical moments. It weakened him until he fell to his knees in front of Brom, his head bowed beneath the weight of his own magic's betrayal. Somewhere along the line, he'd bonded with Brom on a level he couldn't understand.

It was a level his magic understood, though. Slowly, the longer he stayed in Brom's presence, it bound them tighter, tangling them in its web…

He wasn't exactly sure when it happened - outside, the sky had begun to turn dark and grey, with the threat of early frost - but one day Merlin simply stopped fighting Brom and began to embrace his new life instead. He was just too damn tired to continue to the struggle any longer.

Too damn tired of all of it.

He was tired of the drugs that Brom forced into him, drugs that made his mind feel sluggish and his body throb with constant craving. He was tired of needing the drugs, because when he was deprived of them - a game that Brom liked to play when he'd been particularly disobedient - his head hurt, his hands trembled, and his skin stunk with the loathsome aroma of his own sweat.

The one good thing about the drugs, however, was that they made the days pass in a mindless haze, and for the several weeks Merlin was grateful for it. It kept the pain of his mutilated back at bay and sloughed the rough edges from the ache of missing Arthur.

_Arthur_.

It was a name he didn't say too often, but when he did, he spoke it carefully, as if the word were a precious thing that would break if it bumped too sharply against his teeth. Brom didn't expressly forbid him from saying it either, but Merlin had found that when he spoke Arthur's name in his presence, he was punished.

On those occasions, Brom generally liked to punish him by making him forget Arthur's name altogether and cry out his own while he was tied down to Brom's bed or bent over his table with a spreader bar fastened to his ankles.

Sex with Brom was always different then and it always left Merlin confused and wanting more - though more of _what_ he was never quite certain.

On those occasions Brom was exceedingly gentle: his fingers feather-light along his spine; his lips soft and warm against his own, against his neck, his shoulder, his back; too hot when he sucked the tips of his fingers into the wetness of his mouth, too cool as he blew softly against the marks he left. Brom took his time to kiss every inch of Merlin's skin. His breath tickled the back of his knees and his voice swept velvet-soft against the flat planes of his stomach.

"I love you, Merlin," Brom murmured as he pushed his oil-slicked fingers into him, "and you'll learn to love me back."

Merlin replied by writhing against the delicious pressure, the haze of his mind overtaken by the burn of pleasure as he was stretched to the limit. When Brom seated himself he filled him until Merlin was certain he couldn't take anymore, until his arse pulsed with the thickness and hardness that was Brom. He stayed as still as possible, feeling the throb of Brom's heartbeat deep within him until his skin burned and his cock twitched with the sheer intimacy of the moment. Then Brom snapped his hips and sent his mind reeling.

And during the plucking of lips and teeth across his flesh like a maestro's fingers coaxing a note from their instrument, he would hear: "Forget Arthur," and, "Tell me you love me."

For weeks, maybe months, Merlin held onto Arthur's name, trapping it beneath his tongue while he groaned in ecstasy, while Brom fucked him with a tenderness that made him want to sob. His magic would slip out, lured by Brom's gentleness, by his scent full in Merlin's nostrils. Perhaps it was because of the drugs, or maybe the connection he'd formed with Brom the first time he'd used it during sex, his magic embraced him. It wrapped around them both and drew Brom deep into him, until there were bruises painted onto the backs of his thighs and across his hips. His own blunt nails left a latticework of pale red scratches across Brom's back and shoulders, before trailing down to disappear in the dip of his lower back. Merlin was left feeling like he were split open, like his skin had been peeled back and his core laid bare for Brom to examine at his leisure.

He couldn't hold onto Arthur's name for very long. It fled him, slipping through him to leak out of the corners of his eyes. A new name replaced it.

"Brom!" he cried, stiffening as he tripped over the edge with no grace or sense of direction, just a wave of pleasure so intense he soared, high and full of something that overwhelmed him and drained him. When he crashed back down, it was Brom who caught him.

Still, he refused to say those three words that would betray Arthur completely.

He refused to say, "I love you."

***

Eventually he began to lose Arthur's name to sex, pleasure, and a desperate need for comfort that only grew as time went by.

The first time it happened, the first time he forgot Arthur's name entirely, the smell of spring was in the air, fresh and new. Merlin was so ashamed and guilt-ridden that he actually cried. Brom held him and spoke to him, his voice so cruelly gentle against his ear that it made Merlin _hurt_. It was a comfort he didn't want, not from Brom, and yet it was the only comfort he had.

Always, Brom coaxed him with the tip of his silvered tongue to say: "I love you."

And always, Merlin managed to deny saying it, even though his mind sometimes went blank on why he wouldn't.

They were dark days, filled with an intensity of emotion that never waned. It only grew, and Arthur's name, even thoughts of him, began to slip by like sand through a sieve.

Slowly, as the weeks rolled by, Merlin began to rely on the comfort of Brom's silky words and frightfully tender embrace, craving it almost as much as he craved the pervading haze that settled against the corners of his mind. Eventually, he craved it even more than _that_.

"I love you, Merlin," Brom breathed, his whisper heavy as it tickled his ears; it was a lie that Merlin discovered he wished to believe.

So he replied, "I know."

***

Merlin tried to run away only once, during the last days of summer when the trees had just begun to whisper of colder weather ahead.

It hadn't really been a question of whether or not he was going to try, but rather a question _when_. He had to try eventually. He had to try to get away from the haze of sex, drugs, and pain his life was fast becoming. He had to try and get back to Arthur. He had to try and go before he lost himself entirely.

A chambermaid by the name of Colette helped him.

An odd thing about the Aurelianus household was that, for all of his vicious notoriety, most of the manor staff adored Brom. He was charming, well spoken, and, while he was not exactly Adonis, had an allure that drew people in with an almost hypnotic quality. Merlin found he was conflicted at times; for Brom's smile was as likely to make a pang of keen longing lance through his gut as it was to turn his stomach.

There were those who _didn't_ adore Brom, of course, though they were generally too fearful of his wrath to risk bringing it down upon themselves.

Colette was an exception.

She was dainty, yet her hands were calloused and strong from a lifetime of servitude. She wasn't pretty, not exactly, though Merlin did remember how her dark eyelashes would rest against her cheekbones whenever she looked down. And though she'd never said it outright, Merlin could tell she quietly disliked Brom - or at least his methods.

Initially, she was tasked with cleaning the 'artistic' lacerations on his back and changing his bandages. Later, when Brom would leave him bruised and bloodied in a post-sex haze, kneeling over some piece of furniture with a steel bar between his knees and a leather gag in his mouth, she became more than his nurse. She became his friend.

He remembered the first time she found him like that.

His back was barely healed, the skin raw and pink and stretched too tight, as if it had grown back a size too small. His body was numb with exhaustion and his mind was addled with drugs, making even the thought of moving pointless. When Colette entered, he didn't even have the will to be ashamed about how she found him.

Merlin thought she would leave. After all, the rule regarding him was quite simple: nobody touched him except Brom.

He was surprised, then, when Colette quietly closed the door and crossed to where he was kneeling. She crouched down next to him and removed the gag digging into the corners of his mouth, wordlessly rubbing the feeling back into his tired limbs, her fingers sure and firm as she kneaded his sore muscles. She washed the stickiness from his thighs with a warm, wet cloth in an almost clinical manner, and dabbed the spit and blood from his lips where he'd bitten his tongue and nearly choked.

Though his memories of those first few weeks were riddled with holes, he still recalled that moment, the moment when Colette had begun to mean something to him.

His mistake was in taking her comfort instead of pushing it away.

***

Colette tried to help him escape late one night after drugging Brom with something in his wine. She led him out through a narrow servants' passage in the kitchens, swaddled in a heavy cloak that felt as if it were lined with lead.

He was clumsy but determined; determined to find his way back to Arthur.

It wasn't enough however. Not in his state. Not with Brom's very essence tattooed into the scars on his back and flanks, slowing him, fueling his uncertainty with memories so strong he felt his knees go weak when he smelled him on his skin. Even absent, Brom was there, his scent braided into the roots of his hair, lingering behind his ears and along the bow of his lips. Merlin heard Brom's voice call to him from the darkness, a whisper and a moan that tickled the back of his neck.

A voice that whispered only one thing in a throaty mantra: _'Mine, mine, mine.'_

Merlin's magic faltered at a crucial moment, just when the moon peeked its eye from behind a bank of dark cloud, washing him and Colette in pale, ethereal light.

Leofrick, the steward, caught them as he patrolled the grounds. His many keys, on their thick brass ring, slid together like the clamor of metal teeth falling onto the floor. Each loud clink had felt like a nail driving into his chest.

Brom was roused with some acrid concoction that burned Merlin's nose from across the room. Leofrick, in no minor detail, relayed to him what had happened and, through it all, Brom's expression had been blank, almost disinterested.

Merlin was sure that Brom would have punished him right then but, oddly, all Brom had done was lock him in his room without a word and disappear for the rest of the night.

Merlin had counted himself lucky.

***

Of course, he should have known better.

His punishment came the next day, when Brom woke him after a scant few hours of sleep. He sat up, eyes gummy with weariness, to see that Colette was in the room with them.

She looked terrified and, when she turned her eyes upon him, Merlin could feel a weight settle uneasily in his stomach.

He internally berated himself. He should never have taken her help. He should have known that something like this would happen. He knew Brom, therefore he knew better - or at least he should have.

"Brom," he said, conscious of the notes of anger and fear twisting his voice, "it was my idea. Punish me, not her."

"Oh, but Merlin," Brom purred, turning to him with a small disappointed smile, "you _are_ being punished."

Brom pulled a fire poker from its holder near the fireplace. The metal glowed red hot as Brom waved his hand over the glowing tip to test how hot it was. He smiled at Colette, who flinched back from the expression as if it had stung her, her slender shoulders trembling with fear when he approached her. Brom's footfalls were muted and ominous against the thick carpeting, and it matched the dull beat of Merlin's heart as it thudded against his ribcage. Colette made a muffled noise around the gag in her mouth and had begun to cry when Brom cupped her pointed chin with sooty fingers and hummed, "Shall we begin, my dear Colette?"

He ran the pad of his thumb across her jaw with deceiving gentleness, leaving a streak of ashy residue daubed across her pale skin. Brom glanced towards Merlin, and there was something too cunning and too bright within the corner of his eyes. It immediately set Merlin's teeth on edge. Brom shifted his eyes towards him and Merlin stilled beneath the weight of his glare. "If you interfere, I will kill her." Merlin didn't doubt Brom's seriousness. Brom maintained eye contact with Merlin as he stroked Colette's cheek with the back of his hand. "Shh, no more tears, my dear." He ripped out Colette's gag and used it to wipe the moisture that trailed down her cheeks. She choked on a sob as she began to cry harder. "Hold up your hand, Colette," Brom said in a soft, velvety voice. Trembling, Colette barely raised one slender hand and uncurled her fingers.

Brom pressed the red hot tip of the fire poker lightly against Colette's palm. The smell of burning flesh filled Merlin's nostrils. Colette's scream filled his ears, though it was undercut by the sound of Brom's laughter. Merlin stood and took a step forward. Brom raised a hand to stop him. "I'm warning you," he said. Before Merlin could reply, he pressed tip of the poker to Colette's temple and dragged it slowly down the side of her face. The wound was cauterized as it was made. Colette's skin sizzled as the hot metal seared her, crackling and bubbling with each pass of the poker.

Colette's screams were long and agonized. She screamed with her whole body, limbs jerking against her bonds as she twisted wildly away from the source of her agony, from the burn of hot metal pushed against her flesh. Her cries bounced off of the walls, ragged when her throat grew dry - they burrowed into every corner of the room and lingered. Occasionally her screams would be cut off midway, pain too intense stealing her air as Brom became..._creative_. Her sharp gasps were worse; Merlin could feel her suffering in his own body with each strangled breath.

"Shut up," said Brom with a pleasant smile, as he forced open Colette's mouth and burned a hole into her tongue to quiet her screams. Colette began to gurgle sickly, choking on her own tongue and blood as Brom pushed the hot metal against the back of her throat.

"STOP IT!" Merlin shouted and lashed out with his magic. There was a flash of light and the smell of ozone permeated the air. Brom issued a startled cry and dropped the fire poker. When Merlin looked, he saw that Brom's hand was blackened, like it had been singed. Merlin rushed to Colette's side and tried to figure out which leylines of magic needed to be sewn to heal Colette's scarred body. Perhaps if he wasn't so weary, or still held pinned by the fog in his mind, he might have been able to help her.

Behind him, he heard Brom pick up the fire poker. "Move, Merlin," Brom said in a low, dangerous growl. Merlin physically shielded Colette with his body. Colette's face was bloody and burned. Her body was slumped in the chair and she was limp, but Merlin could hear her pained, labored breathing. Her breath came wetly, blood bubbling on her lips with each exhale, and after a moment he realized she was speaking. Merlin wrapped his hand around her shoulder tightly: Colette was praying to die.

"No," he repeated. He couldn't chase the tremor from his voice. Brom lowered the poker and reached out for him, gently. Merlin flinched back from his touch, but remained resolutely in front of Colette as Brom laid his hand lightly on the side of his neck.

"I love you Merlin, you know this. This is for your own good." And fast as quicksilver, Brom gripped him tightly by the throat and shoved him violently aside. Merlin's fingers locked around Colette's shoulder as he was shoved and he nearly jerked the whole chair over with him. She was as limp as a rag doll as she was yanked forward, her head lolling to the side as if she had no more strength left in her. Merlin couldn't keep his grip and he stumbled back, a piece of Colette's dress tearing in his hand as he fell back. His world listed like a ship tossed in a storm when he fell and hit his head hard on the corner of the table.

Blood trickled down over the curve of his cheek as pain exploded behind his eyes. He tried to crawl away on his hands and knees but his head was swimming. There was a crippling pain pounding like a blacksmith's hammer between his temples.

Brom turned away from him. Without another word, he began to break every bone in Colette's body with the fire poker, the first blow resonating through the room with a sickening crunch. Colette made a terrible gurgling noise but it soon faded to nothing. Merlin thought the silence was worse and wanted nothing more than to hear her screams again.

***

After what seemed like a long time, Merlin heard Brom toss the fire poker down carelessly and walk over to him. Brom wrapped his strong arms around Merlin's body, his hands staining his shirt red, and pulled him close.

"What is the lesson you've learned today?" Brom asked as he rolled the lobe of Merlin's ear between his lips. Merlin shuddered involuntarily as a tingle of sick pleasure shot through him, mixing with his guilt, and providing an easy means of escape.

He was numb with shock. He didn't want to think. Merlin looked down and saw blood on his hand from where he had touched Colette. He began to shake, the complete reality of the situation settling onto his shoulders fully. This was his fault - _his_. He should never have tried to leave Brom. If he hadn't, Colette would still be alive.

Brom held him close as he shook. Merlin could feel his warm breath ghost over the back of his neck, followed by the wetness of his tongue. His lips were soft as he kissed a sensitive area behind Merlin's right ear.

He was disgusted with himself. He was disgusted by the physical response of his body when Brom palmed him through the material of his pants, coaxing his flaccid cock into sleepy wakefulness. He was sickened by the smell of death in the room, mixed finely with the scent of cooked flesh. He was confused by the throb between his temples, unable to think straight with the conflict of feelings and sensations assaulting him.

Merlin didn't want to think about what had just happened. He couldn't bear the guilt of Colette's death.

"What have you learned?" Brom prompted.

"I," Merlin began haltingly, his voice thick with self-loathing and muted by pain, "I caused Colette's death." His neck lolled helplessly to one side as Brom pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw.

"Yes," replied Brom, as he dragged the tips of his fingers across Merlin's flat belly, "you did. She has been duly punished, but your punishment is not over." He hauled Merlin up to his feet and Merlin caught sight of Colette's bent, broken corpse not a few feet away. Merlin felt his stomach turn and he bile rise in his throat at the sight of Colette's face. It was simply a slick, bloody pulp - Merlin didn't recognize her at all.

He vomited onto the floor.

Brom clicked his tongue in disapproval and then shoved him over the desk, slamming him down hard onto the wooden surface. Merlin didn't fight back as Brom pressed his cheek roughly against the desktop and undid his belt.

This was all his fault.

***

Merlin never tried to run away again.

Brom's lesson had been clear: His disobedience would only get other people hurt.

So he gave into him.

***

Living with Brom wasn't a perfect life by any means, but it was what it was. Merlin adapted because he had to, if he were to have any hope of preserving some part of himself.

When he gave in, when he dropped in exhaustion and simply stopped fighting, his "rehabilitation" began. Or at least that's what Brom liked to call it.

He slowly began weaning Merlin off the drugs. It was one of the most intensely painful experiences of his life. There were times when he simply _knew_ that death would have been preferable over the ache of his withdrawal.

Brom sat with him and read aloud as Merlin shook and sweated, huddled in a thick blanket damp with his own stench and fluids as he convulsed. He begged Brom for more drugs, for anything to stop the cravings that made him physically ill; for a reprieve. Brom always denied him, licked his thumb, turned the page, and continued to read.

Merlin's mind was often far away, delirium a comfort against the consuming pull of his withdrawal, but he was at times lucid enough to capture snatches of what Brom was reading. He sat and shivered, the smooth roll of Brom's voice captivating as it dripped slowly down the length of his spine.

_There was a lady dwelt in York:  
She fell in love with her father's clerk,  
Down by the green wood side._

_She laid her hand against a stone,  
And there she made most bitter moan,  
Down by the green wood side._

_She took a knife both long and sharp,  
And stabb'd her babes unto the heart,  
Down by the green wood side._

_As she was walking home one day,  
She met those babes all dress'd in white  
Down by the green wood side._

_She said, "Dear children, can you tell,  
Where shall I go? To heav'n or hell?"  
Down by the green wood side._

_"O yes! dear mother, we can tell,  
For it's we to heav'n and you to hell."  
Down by the green wood side._

When the power of his own craving became too hideous to bear, when he began to slide away and to fold in upon himself, Brom's voice was the one to seize him and draw him back.

***

Brom often whispered dark promises into the pale skin of Merlin's neck; insidious words that were edged in the softest satin. "You and I will be great, Merlin," he murmured as he fisted his hand in his dark hair and pulled back, ever admiring of the manner in which Merlin's scarred back arched with cat-like flexibility. He said, "I love you, you know that. I protect you," and pushed himself deeper and deeper into Merlin's body.

Brom also cut, carving pain into sex. The sight of Merlin's limbs ribboned with blood undoubtedly stirred him, but what drove him to even greater heights of pleasure was when Merlin began to _need_ the pain in order to come.

***

Merlin himself was unsure when it began to happen, when lacerations and bruises became a trigger for his pleasure. He began to crave the sting of the razor's edge. He began to beg for the prick of Brom's teeth hard on his skin. He began to like the ache of bruised skin, the ugly marks that started scarlet, faded to mottled black and blue, and burned so sweetly for days afterward. Brom often traced the paths of the bruises and cuts tattooed across his skin in the darkness, a blind man reading a book beneath the tips of his fingers and the heat of his palms.

Merlin wondered if it were possible to become addicted to pain, the rush of adrenaline and the desire that burrowed into the base of his spine, ripping his orgasm from him almost violently, every single time. He tried to hide it, afraid that if he let slip that he actually _liked_ what Brom was doing to him, then he would stop.

He couldn't hide it from Brom forever, and when he figured it out, he made Merlin beg for it.

***

In many ways, it was a relief for Merlin to give up the struggle. It was a relief to let Brom shape his new life, his hands surprisingly gentle and firm as he carved Merlin a place at his side. But there was always something within him that railed against the change, urging him to fight and stay true to himself - and true to Arthur.

"Say it, Merlin, and you can come," Brom growled, his voice low and menacing as it curled around his teeth. He bit down harder on the nape of Merlin's neck, the flesh yielding beneath his bite before the first layer of skin broke neatly, giving him the barest taste of metallic warmth.

Merlin, straining for contact, for any stimulation against his swollen cock, couldn't do it. He couldn't say it. His voice caught in his throat even as his body screamed for release.

"It's easy," Brom whispered, his voice a husky rasp that made a jolt like an electric current shudder down Merlin's spine. "Just tell me - I know you do."

Rebelliousness beat against his ribcage with urgent fists, furiously struggling against the words that crept along the edge of his lips. Merlin looked up at Brom curved above him - _really_ looked at him. He let his eyes trace the damp tendrils of auburn hair that clung to his forehead. His gaze lingered over the swollen redness of his lips, before tugging up to look into Brom's deep green eyes.

Merlin felt something twist and shift within him and then, at last, he gave up the last piece of himself he'd been holding onto. He locked it away, burying it deep within where it couldn't hurt him anymore. He needed to live _now_. He needed to learn how to thrive. It was the only way he could survive this.

"I love you," Merlin said finally, and meant it with every part of himself he had to give. It was all Brom's now - it had to be, if this was going to work. "I love you," he repeated and came with a sob that was swallowed by the sheets.

***

(To be continued...)


	2. Part One: Home Is Where the Heart Is

**Part One - "Home is Where the Heart Is"**

***

365 days is a long time to miss someone.

Despite what he had told himself in those first few weeks of raw emotion and pain that curled beneath his ribs like the taloned claws of a dragon, Arthur found that the loss of Merlin had dulled over time. The ache of the first few months gradually faded into something bearable, something that he could live with; something that didn't threaten to steal his breath every time Merlin's name was mentioned in his presence.

But it had been hard.

It was _still_ hard.

***

Arthur pulled his fingers through the damp snarls in his hair as he strode down the hall towards his father's chambers, his skin prickling uncomfortably beneath his armor as the humidity from outside seemed to bleed through the walls. It always seemed like the air was denser the closer he drew to his father's quarters, ever the more during the long days of summer. Everything felt too moist and it made Arthur's feel perpetually wet and the slightest bit soggy.

He came to an abrupt halt outside of his father's door, and held up a hand to the pair of guardsmen standing at attention when they moved to open it for him. Arthur stood for a moment and gathered himself, staring hard at the polished wood as if he might glean some measure of understanding from it - namely, just _what_ his father wanted with him.

He and his father didn't have a proper conversation for at least a month or two after Merlin had been sent away. Those months were filled with silent meals and broken gestures; Uther had tried to bridge the chasm that split them, but Arthur had not.

Eventually, they'd been forced to interact; polite smiles and empty displays, all demonstrated for benefit of the public. It was a well-performed masquerade all things considered, but Arthur realized that he couldn't keep up the wall of silence forever. He might never forgive his father for what he had done but he couldn't avoid speaking to him, all the same.

It didn't mean he had to like it.

Arthur shut his eyes, inhaled a deep breath, and felt the air flow thickly into his lungs.

When he opened them, his blue irises were laced with a clear look of resignation. He gave a curt nod to the guards, who promptly opened the double doors and allowed him admittance.

***

"Arthur," greeted Uther with a quick nod. He gestured to a seat at the table, which Arthur deigned to take. He instead crossed to a nearby window and glanced out towards the orchard with feigned disinterest.

"What is it, Uther?" asked Arthur in a quick, clipped tone. He could practically feel his father's frown settle between his shoulder blades at the use of his first name. He hadn't called Uther Pendragon "father", in months Truth be told, he didn't much care either, though a small part of him would forever seek Uther's approval.

"As long as you insist on this childish game of yours, _Arthur_," replied Uther, "then you will address me as 'my lord' or 'sire'. Is that understood?" His father's voice was neutral, betraying no hint of the frustration Arthur imagined was brewing just beneath the surface of his bland tone. It was the voice that he used when he was being purposefully diplomatic and it grated on Arthur's patience, which, granted, had been virtually non-existent as of late.

He couldn't hold back the flicker of annoyance that crossed his features when he turned away and looked towards Uther, but he did manage to keep his tone cool when he answered - he'd learned from the best, after all. "Yes sire, I understand."

"Good," said Uther with a brittle smile, "then we shall continue." He shuffled some papers around on his desk until he pulled out a rolled parchment. He handed it to Arthur who accepted it quickly. He scanned the contents of the note with disinterest until he saw just _who_ the letter was from. He felt the color drain from his face and his lips tighten.

"Absolutely not," Arthur bit out, tossing the note onto the table as if it had scalded his hand. "I won't do it." (He managed to hold back the unspoken and childish, "And you can't make me!", but just barely.)

From Uther's expression, Arthur knew that he'd been expecting this sort of reaction, more or less. The knowledge did little to calm the riot of surprise, anxiety, and resentment that clashed freely in his chest; rather, it made him want to scream in frustration and storm out. Uther sat down and tucked into a bit of suckling pig that had been brought up for his lunch. He ate with measured leisure and Arthur felt his hands clench at his sides.

His father was baiting him; he bit the inside of his cheek, determined not to be tempted into making a fool of himself by acting overtly churlish.

"You _will_," assured Uther calmly, pausing to wash a bite of food down with a long drink from his wine goblet, "because you must. You will someday be king, Arthur." His eyes grew flinty and he continued in a deadly serious tone. "You will need to learn to put _personal_ feelings aside and go to the aide of our allies when they request it."

"I have no personal feelings in this matter," said Arthur quickly, averting his eyes from his father's probing gaze. He snatched the parchment back up and scanned through it again, aware of Uther's stare heavy and cold upon the side of his face. "I just don't think that a _Rom_ problem in Darlington warrants sending out my knights." He shook his head and pushed his limp blonde locks from his brow with the back of his hand. "Lord Aurelianus should be able to handle this on his own."

Uther nodded, conceding the point. "Normally I would agree with you," he replied as he set down his fork and steepled his fingers, "but this is an unusual circumstance. It seems that the tribe which has settled near Darlington is quite large and led by a cutthroat bandoleer named Emilian. His tribe has started to encroach upon the outer borough and they've been waylaying merchants and other travelers along the main road to the town. As you know, Ambrosius relies heavily on trade to sustain his economy and _we_ rely on him for political reasons."

At Arthur's dour look, Uther stood and leaned over the table, his fingers splayed wide against the dark wood. "It's the way of things, Arthur. I am King of Camelot but it will amount to nothing in the end if we don't have the support of the aristocracy. This will also show the people that Camelot will take care of those who are loyal to the crown. It will rally their spirits."

"Oh I'm sure," Arthur spat darkly, his temper careening to the fore, "that the people of Camelot _and_ Darlington will be most joyous over our conquest of the Rom." He leaned forward, unconsciously matching his father's stance as he placed him palms upon tabletop. "You wouldn't have done this for Ealdor."

"Ealdor," said Uther, his voice steady yet as cold as winter frost, "was below our concern."

Arthur heard the message beneath his father's words, however: _Merlin, was beneath our concern._

He grit his teeth. "I suppose I don't have a choice in the matter," he ground out as he spun away from his father and moved toward the door. "Seems like I don't have a choice in much anymore," he muttered, just loud enough to be sure that Uther had heard.

"Arthur."

Arthur stopped, tensing when he felt Uther walk up behind him and put a hand upon his shoulder. He wanted to shrink from the contact - it was unwelcome. It made the anger that slithered through his veins and banded around his heart threaten to erupt. "Yes?" Arthur asked stiffly, stoically refusing to look at him.

Tell me now - is this going to be problem? Are you still too _personally_ involved?"

Arthur couldn't hold back the flinch that came when he heard the disappointment and disdain in his father's voice, but when he spoke his voice was steady, despite the curious and suddenly frantic beat of his heart. "No, it won't be a problem."

"Good." Uther released his shoulder and patted him on the back. "I'm pleased to hear that."

"I'll take care of it, sire," Arthur replied shortly and strode out, every muscle wound tight to keep himself from breaking into a run and fleeing the room altogether.

***

Arthur wasn't surprised that he found his way to the battlements, though he still blinked when he felt the slight breeze stir the humid air against his cheek.

He rarely came up here anymore.

The initial weeks after Merlin's banishment had been filled with varying degrees of anger and denial for Arthur. He'd slept poorly, though each morning he'd wake before dawn and go onto the parapet. He'd hunker down and square his shoulders against the crosswind that swept across the cold grey stone, and wait, tense with anticipation. He'd wait and he'd watch, vigilant for any sign that Merlin had returned; for any sign that Merlin _was_ returning.

In those first few weeks he'd believed that Merlin would find a way to escape Brom and come back to him, because he was unable to go to Merlin himself - Uther had practically barricaded him in his room just to prevent such a thing. He'd still tried.

The last time he had, Arthur had gotten nearly halfway to Darlington before the knights Uther had sent after him caught up with him. He'd fought with them, threatening blood and violence if they prevented him from continuing on to Darlington. The knights - _his_ knights - had been uncertain. In the end they had managed to pin him, kicking and screaming like a child in the throes of a full temper tantrum, to the ground. They'd hog-tied him and tossed him across the back of a horse like a sack.

Suffice to say, the journey back to Camelot had been uncomfortable and humiliating. Worse, when they'd arrived back at the castle, Uther had been so furious with him that he'd thrown him in the dungeons. Arthur had railed at his father and thrown himself against the bars. He'd threatened self-harm if he wasn't allowed to go to Merlin. In retaliation and as a "lesson in princely etiquette", Uther had had him chained like a dangerous criminal.

Then he'd left Arthur there for the better part of a week, until he'd learned his lesson.

Arthur had. He'd borne the marks of his lesson for a long while afterwards in the chafed, bruised skin around his wrists and ankles. He'd been reminded of his lesson in the indiscreet whispers that followed him when he walked through the halls. The lesson had been driven home, however, when he saw the lost respect in the faces of his knights when they looked at him.

That had been the last rescue mission that Arthur had mounted. Merlin just needed some time.

So he waited.

The weeks passed and as they passed, his denial became harder and harder to hold onto. It became harder to rationalize. It became harder for him to understand _why_ Merlin hadn't at least tried to contact him.

He began to doubt. Maybe Merlin had actually _liked_ living with Brom. Maybe Merlin hadn't returned because he didn't want to.

By the end of three months, Arthur began to believe it. By four, he quit going to the battlements altogether. During the sixth, Arthur gave up waiting and hoping. He had to move on. He had to try and live. He got used to the void within himself that Merlin left. He learned to live with the empty space in his heart; space that Merlin used to occupy.

Even still, Merlin was never too far from his thoughts.

Arthur stared down into the courtyard where Camelot's citizens were moving sluggishly in the heat, like he were looking down into a fishbowl and everyone were floating lazily beneath the water. As he gazed down, looking for something and nothing all at once, he rolled a name around in his mouth. He scraped the syllables against his teeth, testing it out and getting a feel for it.

When he spoke it, the sound blundered forth from the confines of his throat. His voice was shaky. "_Merlin_," he whispered.

In response, the ache that he couldn't suppress squeezed his chest until he couldn't breathe for reasons other than the cloying, moist air. Gods, what was he going to do? For months Merlin had been the only thing on his mind. He'd been the only thing keeping him up at night and the only reason he'd wanted to get up in the morning. For nearly a year, Arthur had done nothing but damn well _pine_ for his former manservant, and now, faced with the prospect of seeing him again, he wasn't so sure he wanted to.

He wasn't so sure he could bear it if he saw that Merlin was _happy_ with someone other than himself. He wasn't sure he could bear knowing that Brom had gotten to touch Merlin for months upon months, while _he_ had to settle for the memory of him.

And it wasn't even that: he'd forgo the physical in a heartbeat if he could be sure he had Merlin back with him and if he could be sure that he had Merlin's forgiveness...

...if he could just make sure that he still had Merlin's love.

Arthur caught sight of a swish of red moving through the courtyard below and recognized it as belonging to Morgana, even from that distance. He grimaced and forwent the urge to hunker down behind the battlement wall to avoid being seen. Ever since she'd found out what had happened in her absence, Morgana had made Arthur's life a living hell. More than one occasion had found the pair in the midst of a magnificent row in plain view of servants, courtesans, his knights - pretty much anyone who was unfortunate enough to be around when they happened to run into one another. Consequently, Arthur had taken to avoiding Morgana whenever he could.

Morgana, however, was if anything _dogged_ in her pursuit of him - doubly so after he'd given up trying to rescue Merlin. Lately though, there had been something more in her glare when she'd turned it on him, something complicated that Arthur was too afraid to try and decipher. If he did, he would have to acknowledge his current problem. It was easier not to.

Far below him, Morgana paused and then moved on, eventually disappearing from view. A sigh slid from between clenched teeth as his thoughts turned to the latest issue that Morgana had taken up with him: _Guinevere_.

He thought of their most recent conversation on the subject.

_"Arthur what you're doing with Gwen is wrong." Arthur glanced away from Morgana's steady glare determinedly, fixing his gaze on a point just over her shoulder. However, Morgana took a deliberate step into his line of sight and Arthur was forced to relent and acknowledge her. He fixed her with a cool stare, though his throat felt tight as he replied to her in a terse, clipped tone._

_"What I do or don't do with Guinevere is my business," he said. "I hardly need your permission, but if you must know it's..." he trailed off, uncertain for a moment before swallowing hard and continuing on. "It's complicated, Morgana."_

_Morgana stared at him, her expression colder than frost on a winter's day. "It's complicated?" she repeated, incredulously. Arthur jerked his head, hoping that his lack of response would deter Morgana from continuing their conversation. It didn't._

_"Arthur, you shouldn't be sleeping with her!" Morgana exclaimed loudly, causing him to wince and glance around self-consciously. Her words whipped across the small space that separated them and cracked against his ears. He felt a flash of heat sweep through him and tamped down his guilt and anger with considerable effort. He pulled himself straighter, his back stiff with the tension that wound through him._

_"Why's that?" he snapped, some of his irritation bleeding into his tone despite his effort to rein it in._

_"Because she cares for you and YOU care for Merlin," replied Morgana, enunciating each syllable as if she were speaking to someone who was unforgivably stupid. Arthur's mouth pulled into a thin, hard line as he pressed his lips together to keep from yelling._

_"No," he said quietly. "No. He...I..." Arthur looked down for a moment, as if he might find his answer in the grey stone beneath his feet. There were none to be found. He continued after a lengthy pause. "Despite what I might have felt for Merlin once, he's gone. He wants to be there, alright? Otherwise he would have returned by now, or at least have tried to contact me."_

_Morgana stared at him in silence for another minute, an expression of utter astonishment written across her features. She narrowed her eyes and took a deep breath - Arthur mentally steeled himself for the tirade he was sure was coming. Morgana only gathered her skirts however, and said, "You, Arthur Pendragon, are an insufferable fool and terribly stupid." Then she turned and walked off with a swish of fabric._

"Arthur?"

Arthur, tugged from his thoughts, turned slowly towards Guinevere who stood several feet away, by the entrance to the parapet. He offerred her a forced smile and pushed Morgana's words to the back of his mind. Arthur's gaze wandered over Gwen appreciatively, as she walked to him. Her dusky skin was bright with sweat, and her dark hair was pulled loosely atop her head in an attempt to keep cool. 'Gwen has a lovely neck,' Arthur thought as he watched rivulets of moisture trail down her throat and disappear between her breasts, 'but it's not like _his_.'

"Guinevere," he greeted when she drew near, his eyes dropping to his hand when she reached out and took it in her own. It was small and it fit nicely inside of his; her skin was a pleasing contrast of nut-brown against his own paleness. He rubbed his thumb lightly across her palm and was rewarded when a faint shiver rippled through her body.

"What are you doing up here?" she questioned, her gaze searching his face for something he hoped was hidden. After a moment, she dropped her eyes and instead studied their entwined fingers, a line of consternation stitched between her brows.

Arthur stared at her down-turned face. His gaze skimmed her pretty features, which, individually weren't terribly remarkable - not like Morgana's eyes, for instance - but arranged together created a rather lovely portrait. There was peace to be found in her, should he want it, and there was love too, brimming in the depths of her kind eyes.

He knew on some level that she loved him, perhaps even before they'd started to share a bed. Try as he might, however, Arthur didn't love Guinevere - not exactly. She offered him a reprieve from the nightmares and offered acceptance in the fullness of her breasts and heat between her thighs as he sunk himself into her body. She didn't judge him for what had happened; more importantly, she didn't judge him for what he'd become.

For that Arthur was infinitely grateful.

And that was it: he was grateful - but he didn't love her, at least not like she deserved. Morgana knew it and he knew it. He simply chose not to openly admit it. He and Gwen came together under the wrong circumstances for their union to be anything but imperfect. Most nights Arthur knew he should tell Gwen no, that this was the last time he would share his bed with her, but his resolve was weak.

He needed the comfort she had to offer. He needed the reprieve from the ache he'd felt since the day Merlin had been taken. He needed her implicit understanding of his foolishness as much as he needed her acceptance of it. He needed her strength; he needed the subtle resolve he heard in her voice when she brushed her fingers down his bare chest and whispered, "It's okay to move on, Arthur. _This_ is okay."

Arthur needed that and he was selfish enough to keep taking what Gwen offered, even if he knew he could never return exactly what she wanted.

Guinevere glanced up at him with an honest curiosity reflected in her gaze and he wondered that if under the right circumstances or if given enough time, if he could learn to love her. Maybe he could. Either way, it was almost foolish to ponder: he was a prince and she was not royalty. Even their casual acquaintance would likely be frowned upon.

This was convenience, nothing more. Arthur wouldn't - and couldn't - allow it be more.

He realized that he'd been silent a bit too long when Gwen began to fidget under his stare. He broke the tension with a crooked smile and tugged her fingers up to his mouth. He kissed the tips lightly. "Sorry," he said. He dropped her hand and turned back towards the wall, and resumed peering down into the city. "I just came from Uther's quarters. I needed some place to think." He felt her settle beside him and caught a glimpse of a dark curl from the corner his eye. He refrained from brushing it back behind her ear.

"I see," said Gwen carefully after a moment or two. Arthur was quietly amazed at her poise; often she seemed flustered and at a loss for words. It was another reminder of how much had changed and were continuing to change. "What did he have to say?" There was something else in her voice: an unspoken question lined with focused curiosity. Arthur realized that she already knew what he'd seen Uther about, which meant that Morgana had known before him.

_So he was the last to know - yet again._

Arthur couldn't be surprised. "So you know I'll be going to help out with a Rom tribe near Darlington." It was a statement of fact and not a question. He heard Guinevere's sigh and quiet admission.

"Yes," she replied, "Morgana, um, told me after breakfast this morning. She said I would be, well, you know - interested in knowing that you were going, because..."

Arthur let her trail off. He didn't try to finish her train of thought. They both knew why Morgana had said that. He made a disgruntled sound in the back of this throat and straightened, suddenly irritated with the heat, the conversation, and Camelot in general. "I don't even want to go," he muttered and turned away from his aimless perusal of the courtyard below. "Duke Aurelianus can take care of his own Rom problem. They're just colourful thieves, after all, nothing more. He should chase the lot of them out with fire and dogs - that's how you extinguish vermin."

"I think you should go," said Gwen quietly.

Her words, though soft-spoken, held such regal temerity that Arthur felt his irritation fall away. "You really think so?" he asked, somewhat mollified by the quiet confidence in her voice; a type of confidence that he was learning was unique to Gwen alone.

"Yes," she replied with tremulous smile that betrayed the resolve of her tone. "You need this Arthur. You," she paused and took a breath, "you need closure."

It sounded like it took a lot for her to make that admission.

"Closure," repeated Arthur. He looked at her and saw a delicate sort of hope clearly etched across her brown face. He smiled at her and cupped her cheek, before leaning down to brush his lips across hers in a chaste kiss. "You may be right, Guinevere." He felt guilt slice deeply into him when she smiled back at him, wide and full of an emotion he simply couldn't find in himself to reciprocate.

"Be careful," she said, grabbing his wrist boldly - she was never quite timid, not really, Arthur had just been blind to her inner strength for a long time - halting him before he could stride away. "Arthur," she bit her lip and averted her eyes, as if suddenly aware she was talking to Arthur, the Prince of Camelot and not the Arthur she shared her bed with. Gwen took a deep breath and released his wrist. "If you see him and he's not..." she paused, clearly searching for the correct words. "If he's not happy," she continued, "please bring him back." She touched his face, bringing Arthur's gaze back to her when he looked away uncomfortably. "Arthur, promise me you will. _Please_."

She didn't need to clarify who _him_ was. Arthur stared down into her face for a long time, trying to sort out the knot of emotion that suddenly rose in him at her words. "Why would you have me do that?" he asked in a low, hushed tone. "Why when we...?"

Guinevere reached out to touch him again, her hands fluttering birdlike before settling carefully, one on his chest the other on his shoulder. "Because it's the right thing to do, Arthur," she replied softly, though with conviction. "Because despite what we have now, Merlin is still our friend. I miss him, you know?" Moisture brimmed in her eyes and Arthur gently brushed away a teardrop with the pad of his thumb.

Gwen's words hurt fiercely. Her kindness was at once baffling and overwhelming to him, and Arthur couldn't decide how to respond to it. He just nodded, not trusting himself to say the right thing. Guinevere closed her eyes when he pressed a soft kiss to her brow. She fisted her fingers in his shirt when he moved to step back. He paused and gave her a questioning look. "Don't..." she opened her eyes and looked at him, her expression insecure, "don't forget about what _we_ have."

Arthur was dim to a lot of things, but he wasn't stupid. He could see the words she truly wanted to say dance about the tip of her tongue. He knew what Guinevere was asking and suddenly, he wished he didn't have to lie to her so baldly. He squeezed her hand briefly. Her palm was warm against his own. "I won't forget," he lied and kissed her cheek.

Her eyes said: _'I love you.'_ Arthur knew what she wanted him to say. Some part of him wanted to give Guinevere what she deserved to hear, but when he opened his mouth to say the words they turned to ash on his tongue. He couldn't say it. He couldn't tell Gwen that he loved her.

He wouldn't. He was too used to the dull bite of Merlin's absence in his life, in his heart. He was accustomed to it; it was a reminder of why he couldn't let Guinevere become too close. Arthur's expression went flat and Gwen inhaled a shaky breath. Arthur could verily feel the hurt that trembled against her lips. He looked away from her. Then, without a single glance back, he turned and walked away.

(To be continued...)


	3. Part Two:  The Road Less Taken

**A/N:** The Rom are so far, an entirely made up creation on my part, based loosely off of my idea of nomadic characters. I profess no historical accuracy regarding their dress, customs, or habits, though am working to remedy that to make it as close-shorn to history as you can be when dealing with events set in an Arthurian Legend time-period, not to mention the oddity of the Merlin time-setting. ;)

Title from the Robert Frost poem. I apologize profusely for the delay in getting this chapter out and posted. I hope my readers are still with me and that you guys enjoy it. :)

**Chapter Two- "The Road Not Taken**

The wind smoothed its fingers through the parched grass of the foothills like the ebb and flow of a dry, rasping tide. It provided a backdrop to the off-beat rhythm of their horses' hooves as Arthur and his small contingent of knights picked their way across the uneven ground. Occasionally, one of the horse's steel-shod hooves would strike a rock and the sound would ring out with a sharp clang of metal against stone, rousing Arthur from the lull he'd sunken into.

The heat made it easy to drift into a sort of stupor as he plodded along. It pressed in from all sides and made his skin itchy and damp beneath his armour, almost seeming to wring the moisture from his body like one would wring out a wet towel. Arthur knew he should have pushed forward with more insistance - the sooner they reached Darlington and took care of this Rom problem, the sooner he could return to Camelot For the most part, past a minor emergency that had occurred a day or so out of Camelot when Sir Wolfric's horse had lost a shoe, the trip to Darlington had been uneventful.

It had been downright _boring_, truth be told, but Arthur - for once - was content to let his thoughts wander where they would. Invariably, they were about Merlin.

A year ago he would have galloped the whole way to Darlington just for the chance to snatch Merlin back from Brom. Even six months ago, Arthur would have jumped at the chance. Now, however, he wasn't so sure. Now, however, he'd come far enough in his self-awareness to recognize the coil of fear in his chest when he felt it.

_'Closure,'_ Guinevere had said.

Arthur rolled the word on his tongue and tasted the saltiness of sweat on his lips when he licked them. Closure. It was a word that spoke of finality: of closing one chapter and beginning another. He might never admit it, but he'd kept Merlin's chapter dog-eared and open for a long, long time. He'd thumbed through those pages in the pitch darkness of his room, even on the nights when Gwen's soft body warmed his bed. Even up until a day ago he'd kept some of those pages with him at all times, torn and dirtied from constant handling.

And now he just wasn't so sure if he _wanted_ the closure. It would mean that Merlin was truly lost to him forever. It would mean that Arthur would be forced to move on, to bury the memory and to replace it with others. Arthur glanced down at the object curled in his fingers, its odd angles pressing into his palm when he tightened his fist around it. He glanced down at it for the first time since he'd removed it from his saddlebag an hour or so earlier.

It was the wooden toy knight that he'd thrown against the wall and broken a year prior, the night that Merlin left to go live with Brom. It didn't move its legs when he squeezed the arms down anymore, but Gaius had meticulously glued the pieces back together so that overall it looked whole and unbroken. However, when Arthur looked closely enough, he could still pick out the hairline fractures in the wood where the pieces had been glued back. He wondered - a bit ridiculously - if it would be that easy to glue the fractured pieces of his life back together.

_"Arthur, please give this to him for me when you see him."_

_Arthur didn't look at Gaius as he checked Llamrei's tack before heading out with his knights. He'd taken to caring for his mount on his own, despite the stablemaster's assurance that his boys could take care of Llamrei competently. Arthur simply didn't...trust anyone else to do so. He heard Gaius clear his throat and then felt the man step close. Witholding a sigh that sorely wanted to push forward from his throat, Arthur glanced at Gaius. "What is it?" he asked flatly. He'd been avoiding Gaius lately - avoiding that penetrating, knowing stare, avoiding the disappointment he saw in the downward turn of the older man's lips. Eventually, Arthur had stopped going to the infirmary altogether, forcing Gaius to come to him whenever he sustained an injury or had an ailment. He knew it was an inconvenience. It was just...it was just too hard going there and knowing Merlin's room was empty. It was too hard knowing that Merlin was not coming back._

_Gaius pressed an object wrapped in a soft cloth into his hand. Arthur's fingers closed reflexively around the item; the edges were uneven, the shape odd. Gaius cupped his hands over his own for a brief second, his fingers gnarled and thick, the skin mottled with age. "Be careful, Arthur," he intoned quietly. "Keep it - and yourself - safe."_

_When Gaius left, Arthur unwrapped the small parcel and stood for a long while staring at the toy knight in his hand._

Arthur blinked and brought himself back to the present, realizing that his horse had come to a stop and was tugging determinedly on a patch of weeds. He clicked his tongue to get her moving again and continued to stare at the wooden toy cradled in his palm. _"Closure,"_ he muttered. Perhaps that would be for the best, ultimately, but Arthur didn't like the tightness in his chest whenever his thoughts wandered down that particular path.

Arthur exhaled a heavy breath which stirred the hot air sluggishly. He carded a hand through his hair and glanced up sharply, suddenly welcome for the distraction of hoofbeats pounding across the grass. He slowed his mount to a halt as Sir Osric guided his horse quickly to Arthur and the other five knights. Osric reined his steed and inclined his head in Arthur's direction. His dark brown hair fell limply across his eyes.

"M'lord," greeted Sir Osric, shifting in the saddle uncomfortably. The heat made his fair skin red and blotchy, and Arthur thought he looked on the verge of heatstroke. "I have returned with news of Darlington."

"Yes?" replied Arthur quickly. He felt compelled to move this conversation along as quickly as possible - sitting still as the sun beat down on their backs relentlessly was infinitely worse than walking, even at a slow pace.

"You won't like it," Osric hedged, before catching the full force of Arthur's glare. "The path to Darlington is blocked sire, by the Rom tribe. From what I can tell they are at least thirty wagons strong - any who seek entrance to the town will have to pass straight through the heart of the Rom encampment."

Arthur nodded, though his expression was grim when he looked past Osric's shoulder and along the path where the man had come from. "Then we go straight through. This was expected," he reminded them all sternly when the group grumbled uneasily. "Though cunning, the Rom are no match for trained knights. We'll ride through to to Darlington - if any seek to stop us we will deal with them accordingly."

"Aye sire," the knights agreed, though their lack of enthusiasm caused the corners of Arthur's mouth to tug downwards into a frown.

"Let's go," he commanded, lifting his chin and spurring his horse forward. He squared his shoulders and shrugged off the discomfort from the heat as best he could, though it still clung heavily onto his skin like a thick membrane. His men seemed rally at his shift in attitude and they followed behind him with more vigour than they'd shown in days.

Though he had heard many of the stories and sordid tales surrounding the Rom, Arthur had never actually been amongst them. Everything he'd heard about them - everything he knew about them - had been passed down in muttered remarks and stories told by his nursemaids to keep him in bed at night. (_'Now don't you go a-wanderin', my prince, else the Rom will come and snatch you away.'_) As soon as he and his knights entered the Rom encampment, he felt as if he'd just stepped into an entirely different world. The tales had hardly done the Rom any justice.

The sights and smells and noises were drastically different than what he was used to back home. It was almost overwhelming; it reminded him of a time when a traveling band of entertainers had come to Camelot and had regaled the court with their tricks and tomfoolery, all swathed in bright colors designed to distract and draw the eye. They had been exotic birds, strutting and preening for show, though still carefully caged behind the bars of etiquette and protocol.

In comparison, the Rom were wild beasts draped in multi-coloured hues, all swarthy skin and sleek, dark hair. They coalesced upon Arthur and his knights, moving around their horses in a constant stream, their bright clothing like a rainbow-coloured river that flowed lazily about them. Arthur grit his teeth and kept one hand on his saddlebag and the other on the pommel of his sword, as he guided Llamrei with his knees through the the throng. Awareness kept his shoulders tense as he pressed forward, his eye occasionally drawn by a flash of copper or silver from the bangles on the women's wrists and earrings, while bawdy offers spoken from red-painted lips drew his ear.

One woman, a slim little thing with wide hips and ample breasts paused in front of his horse with a swish of her skirts. Her hair was loose and wild as it tumbled down her back in a waterfall of black strands. It was her eyes, however, that held him: so dark they appeared nearly black, like a tar pit that drew him deeper into them the longer she stared.

"_Shansu, dinello,_ she greeted, her accent wholly foreign to Arthur's ears. "Won't you stop and rest for a bit?" It took him a moment longer to decipher what she had said, for her voice seemed to dip and purr in unexpected places. When he had worked it out, Arthur shook his head.

"Nay, we only seek to push on to Darlington," he replied, the smells and sounds of the Rom encampment suddenly feeling like a chain around his throat, closing it, trapping him within this foreign world. He pressed his horse forward another few steps, when the woman slunk forward and caught his mount's bridle in one small hand.

"My _mujhar_ Emiliel would insist that fine young men such as yourselves stop and rest. If he does not insist, then _I_ insist." Her voice was low, almost deep and yet feminine - it was a voice that men would pay attention to. When she smiled up at Arthur, he saw that her teeth were good, though her grin was crooked. It was with some effort that he tore his gaze from hers.

"What is your name?" he asked, nerves, and a feeling of unbalance he didn't care for, sharpening his tone.

The woman inclined her head, though didn't remove her hand from his horse's bridle. "My name is Mirella."

"Mirella," repeated Arthur, trying unsuccessfully to replicate the odd rise and fall of her accent, "thank you for the offer but we'll be going." He jerked Llamrei's head to the right, ripping the bridle from Mirella's hand. "We've business elsewhere," he added carefully, hesitant about revealing too much of the true nature of their visit.

Mirella's dark gaze suddenly narrowed with suspicion and her painted lips drew back from her teeth, rendering her a distinctly feral expression. "Perhaps you are the _bostaris_ that the Duke has summoned to remove us from this land?" She stepped back, small bells sewn into the hem of her skirt tinkling like fairy song. "Perhaps you believe the same as he, that we are undeserving of being here?" She fixed him with  
a long stare, something inscrutable yet passionate brimming within the depths of her dark eyes. "We have every right to settle here too - this land belongs to everyone."

Arthur matched her displeased glare with one of his own, drawing himself up even straighter in the saddle. Her tone clearly conveyed her disdain and he felt a flush of indignation flush through him. He peered down at her and spoke in a clear, clipped tone. "This is considered the land of the Aurelianus family," he said, acutely aware of the sudden hush that had befallen the Rom crowded around him, "and it has been theirs since before you were born." He managed to keep his voice neutral and the sneer from his tone, though it took a measure of his control to do so.

Before Mirella could reply, somebody began to clap loudly from behind her. Arthur's knights pressed close to him as the crowd stirred, parting to allow access to a large man. The man wore his hair loose around his square face, and it fell long enough to sweep across broad shoulders. He was a great big slab of a man, all brawn and swagger and uncompromising masculinity. His hands, Arthur noted, looked as if they could palm his skull and crush it, without effort. Though there was nothing terribly cunning within the man's gaze, his size and obvious strength made up for it as he barreled through the crowd, people falling out of his way left and right.

Behind him trailed a pair smaller men, lean and whip-like, though no less dangerous looking. In battle, they would make good foils for the bigger man, balancing out his strength with speed. They reminded Arthur of a pair of jackals, all greedy eyes and half-smiles, empty with want.

"Mirella!" boomed the man, his voice naturally deep and loud, as if he'd forgotten long ago how to modulate it. "We have visitors, I see!" His words were congenial enough, though Arthur heard the edge in his tone; this was a man who was used to taking what he wanted.

"They are _bostari_" hissed Mirella, not turning from where she stared down Arthur. The big Rom came and placed his large hands on her slender shoulders, drowning her in his shadow. Mirella didn't say anything more, but her expression communicated only the deepest loathing.

"Ah," said the man, his face pulling downwards into a scowl. "I am Emiliel," he announced, thumping a fist to his broad chest. "I am the bandoleer of this family. You come into my encampment armed without even the courtesy of stopping to pay your way when my wife has asked. This does not bode well for our first meeting, friend."

The two men behind Emiliel moved and fanned out on either side of him. There was a flash of metal. Next to him, he could feel his knights tense. "What dues?" asked Arthur, his patience stretched paper thin. "As far as I am aware, the Duke chooses not to levy taxes on those who use this road."

"Oh ho, is that right, little man?" chortled Emiliel, as he moved Mirella gently to one side and stepped in front of her. "It looks like you are in _my_ encampment _mushipen_, and in my tribe _I_ make the rules."

The Rom words were unknown to Arthur, though from Emiliel's inflection, he could easily guess that they weren't complimentary. Arthur drew in a deep breath and tried to quiet the immediate response that rose in him to teach Emiliel a lesson with the sharp edge of his blade. Pride dictated that he not let the insult go unanswered, though his better judgement said otherwise. "I'm Prince Arthur of Camelot," he announced in a sure, confident voice. "You will allow us passage to Darlington. This is a free road and you haven't the right to impose a toll on those who travel it. Now stand aside and we shall be on our way."

Emiliel's face furrowed, creating a severe 'v' between his eyebrows as he regarded Arthur appraisingly. He motioned to the two men he had come with. The pair moved to his side, flanking him. Arthur was surprised to notice what he hadn't before: the pair were twins, identical in every way. They were ordinary-looking, all things considered, though the pair of them had a high-planed cheeks and a slight dimple in their chins which gave them a somewhat more unique presentation.

Arthur was only able to tell them apart by their different coloured shirts, but he thought he could see the livid slash of a scar peeking up from the scooped collar of the right twin's blue shirt.

He watched them warily, recognizing their aggressive stances. He responded to it by dropping his hand again to the hilt of his sword. He made no attempt at subterfuge.

Emiliel leaned down towards the left twin, listening as the smaller man whispered something in his ear. He straightened and looked towards Arthur once more, his broad face split into an unkind smile. "My cousins Pal and Pov tell me you've insulted my family," he boomed, sweeping his hand into a wide gesture all around him.

"How so?" asked Arthur, a bit flummoxed by the statement.

"Your horses kicked up dirt in my nephew's face, or so I'm told," replied Emiliel. All around him, the Rom burst into a hyena-chorus of laughter. The big Rom stepped forward and Arthur tightened his fingers over his blade. "We Rom believe in strength of family, _mushipen_, and if you've insulted my family you've insulted _me_."

Arthur drew his blade. His knights followed suit. Next to Emiliel, Pal and Pov produced knives from seemingly nowhere.

And then, from somewhere to his right, a velvet, silk-smooth voice cut through the air. "Dear me, my prince, you aren't quite as popular as I remember."

Arthur turned, his attention wholly absorbed as Brom Aurelianus pushed forward through the crowd, expertly guiding his sleek red steed around a small passel of children with steady, quiet hands. Arthur couldn't keep the black look from crossing his features or the feeling of loathing that ripped through him as he watched Brom approach. If the expression glittering within Brom's deep green eyes was any indication, he shared Arthur's feeling on the matter.

When Brom grinned at him, however, it was a fox's grin: sharp and white and immensely pleased, as if daring him to find where he'd stashed the chicken.

Emiliel turned too and waved down Pal and Pov, who, with a reluctant glance over toward Arthur and his knights, lowered their weapons. "Brom," thundered Emiliel, his eyes narrowing, "come alone? Where is your companion?"

Arthur's head whipped around as a voice called out behind Brom, clear and true: "Here."

With a sense of surrealism, Arthur watched as Merlin rode up next to Brom. It was like seeing a ghost materialize in broad daylight - he hadn't realized how much his memory of Merlin had faded after a year. The reality of him, of _his_ Merlin in the flesh, was almost overwhelming. Arthur found that his breath had caught in his throat; if he dared to breathe, this moment would be over and the dream would melt away.

Merlin, however, did not fade or shatter as Arthur half expected him too. He remained embossed in vivid detail, framed within his vision, and painfully real. His eyes dropped to a glint of light around Merlin's throat and his mouth fell open: there, fastened around that long, graceful neck, as if it had every right to be there, rested a simply-crafted yet elegant leather collar. The metal buckle shone in the sunlight.

A murmur ran through the crowd when Merlin's gaze brushed over the gathered Rom. There was a shift in the atmosphere; it became frought with tension thick enough to taste. Arthur realized after a moment, that the Rom - a good number of them at least - were _frightened_ of Merlin.

Arthur was immediately pulled from his reverie. He shook his head somewhat stupidly feeling a touch off-balance, like he'd imbibed one cup of wine too many. He squinted at Merlin closely, trying to ignore the tightening of his throat as he flicked his eyes casually over his former manservant. Outwardly, he couldn't see anything _drastically _different about Merlin's appearance that warranted such a reaction from the Rom. Still, the changes that were there drew out a longing that burned through Arthur like brush fire.

It also drew out a realization that hit him like a kick to the teeth: This was no longer _his_ Merlin.

No, Merlin was different and the differences weren't as subtle as he originally thought. Merlin carried himself with a sense languid confidence that loosened his limbs and chased the hunched tightness from his shoulders. He had little of the twitchy energy that Arthur remembered; the nervous, almost furtive current that always seemed to make Merlin's limbs jerk like a marionette on frayed strings. There was a relaxed air settled across the bow of his shoulders and that alone transformed Merlin entirely.

It made him a stranger in Arthur's eyes.

Merlin's hair was also a bit longer, long enough that Arthur imagined he could easily gather a fistful of it between his fingers and _pull_. It lent him a distinctly rumpled look, like he had just gotten out of bed even though he wore a freshly pressed shirt. It was keenly appealing. His face was fuller, and Arthur could tell by the fit of his clothing that he'd filled out more, put on weight and carried it well. The weight to his face made his cheekbones stand out in sharp relief, though not how they used to. Before, Merlin's cheekbones could have cut glass. Now his features were softer, somehow, padded...less hungry.

Merlin looked healthy - good - like he'd been thriving. Arthur was surprised to find how much the discovery _hurt_. When Merlin reached over and took Brom's hand in his own, however, Arthur felt more pain than any physical injury he'd suffered ratchet through him.

And nipping close on the heels of the pain which burnt through him, was the ugly feeling of betrayal.

**Rom Words:**  
_mujhar_ - sir, lord, sire  
_shansu_ - peace (greeting)  
_dinello_ - a fool  
_bostaris_ - a bastard  
_mushipen_ - little man

(To be continued.)


	4. Part Three: Beloved

**Warnings:** angst, dub-con, bondage, masturbation, disturbing imagery, mentions of violence, self-induced hypothermia pseudo-necrophilia(via hypothermia play)

**A/N:** Have I kept you guys waiting long enough? I apologize profusely, but I hope you enjoy this next bit. :) (Don't worry, I'm not abandoning the story by any means.)

**Part Four - "Beloved"**

Summer crouched over Albion on great, fiery haunches, an overweight cat whose purrs slid wetly across the skin. Its breath was fetid, hot and stale, as it sapped the vegetation of moisture and made the grass grind underfoot like the crunch of many small bones. Clothing stuck to the skin like bandages to an old wound. Merlin disliked the feel of the damp fabric as he pried the layers from his body with slick fingers. Truthfully, bare skin wasn't much better, but it was a vast improvement to the stink of sweat that burrowed into the fibers of his clothes. Besides, Brom tended to enjoy looking at him when he was shiny with sweat and would let him lounge on the bed and nap while he sat next to him and watched.

It was a little odd, at least at first, but like everything in Merlin's new life, he'd learned to accept it.

For the moment he wasn't thinking of any of that - or anything really - because he was immersed to his chin in the over-sized bathtub that dominated Brom's large washroom. The water was freezing, magically chilled to exactly replicate the paralyzing cold of freshly melted snow.

He'd been there for ten minutes - maybe more, maybe less.

As always, the first couple of minutes had been excruciatingly painful. So Brom had bound his hands and his feet and had forcibly held him down in the tub, when he'd first sunk into the icy wetness. Brom _wanted_ Merlin to feel the pain - intense and unmistakable - his every nerve ending aflame with a burn that ripped his thoughts to shreds and became the focus of his world.

The process was slow and agonizing; the chill of the water sliced into his veins, as sharp as any shard of glass. Merlin felt as if the cold were slowly crystallizing his blood. It sapped the warmth and strength from his body straight through his pores and his body reacted violently, jerking as if an icicle had been punched through his chest. Even despite that, he wished to experience the pain - just as Brom wanted.

Merlin wanted to feel it, because the pain was something exquisite. It was brutal in manner that didn't leave him painted in blood and bruises. It was unlike anything he'd ever felt - each time was like a new experience. It was terrible. It was beautiful. The cold froze its memory into his every tendon, lingering with him like a wintry kiss on the back of his neck that lasted for several days.

And there was the pleasure - the spread of warmth in his belly and chest, and the prickle of reawakened nerve-endings in his fingers and toes as Brom fucked him when he was nigh-frozen and corpse-cold. The pleasure was beyond comprehension. The contrast of immense pain was offset by jolts of it - so keen and rough, his skin raw and aching - that it hurt.

Eventually, the hurt was good.

Merlin wasn't really thinking of the pleasure right then, or anything in particular, for his lips were blue and his thoughts were heavy and sluggish. He felt drowsy and might well have fallen asleep if it wasn't for the press of the leather collar against his throat, a comforting weight that held the glossy threads of his attention as he slid in and out of awareness. It took massive effort to lift his eyes and look up towards Brom, who sat on a stool near the tub monitoring him closely.

"B-brom," he stuttered, his voice thick and stupid with cold, "B-brr." Words fled him. Perhaps they'd never been there. The pervading chill in his veins chased his thoughts away with the snap of icy teeth.

His limbs were lead, sunken like anchors below the surface of the water. He had no feeling in his extremities; he forgot what having fingers and toes should feel like. It was just how Brom liked it. It was just how _he_ liked it. Merlin's head lolled back, peaceful drowsiness pushing down hard on his skull. He was ready to submit to it. He was ready to let it seize him. Merlin wanted to purr with contentment, in satisfaction, in acceptance to the offer of eternal peace. His eyes began to slide shut.

At that moment Brom stood and hooked his arms underneath Merlin's own. He lifted him from the tub with little effort and pulled him against his chest - back-to-front, heel-to-toe. Merlin was unable to feel the warmth of Brom's bare skin against his back as he was lifted and cradled against his body. Brom was gentle, his touch as soft and caring as a mother cradling her babe.

Merlin twitched feebly, his feet dragging unhelpfully on the on the thick carpeting as Brom carried him to the bed. Merlin was dropped carefully atop the plush covers and he lay unmoving where he was placed, still paralyzed by the freezing cold that had locked his joints and left his skin riddled with the bite of frost. In fact he was certain there would be a blueish tinge to it, if he looked, so he didn't try.

Merlin let his mind drift as Brom arranged him on the bed how he pleased. He felt a bit like a doll that was being played with - all that was missing was the lace ruff and a bow in his hair. At least dressing him up like a woman wasn't something that Brom preferred - Merlin had done it for him just once and had been stared at so lewdly by one of the men in town, that Brom had taken offense and torn the man's face off. After that, Merlin vowed never to do it again, and luckily Brom had never again asked.

So Merlin never voiced any complaints as Brom arranged his limbs in a display that was pleasing to him, which was just how Brom liked it - at least when they were playing _this_ game. (Other times Brom enjoyed a good struggle and back talk, because it meant that Merlin would be punished more viciously.) Merlin didn't mind so much, though it sometimes, when he was being positioned at Brom's leisure and will, it reminded him of times past when Brom had trussed him up and fucked him when his head was slippery and his body was thrumming with drugs. He'd been unable to string together coherent sentences, let alone fight him.

A thread of gratitude wandered through him when Brom cut the leather bindings on his wrists and ankles - he still hadn't gotten completely comfortable with being restrained and tied down.

His mouth cracked open a bit when Brom began to rub his palms over his feet and hands. The blood didn't come flooding back in a rush, however - he could still barely feel a thing. He only felt warmth of Brom's hands distantly, like a weak ray of sunlight that struggled to break through a thick bank of clouds to warm his face.  
Merlin drew in a strained, tight breath, his lungs still uncooperative, when Brom blew a hot puff of air onto his scrotum and up his limp, wet length. A dull heat - still dimly felt - began to swelter beneath his chest. His breath lagged a little faster as his heart beat a little quicker. His blood felt like molasses as it dripped thorough his body. There was a tingle in his nethers.

Then Brom, his skin hot and sleek with sweat, lay his body flush to Merlin's cold, frozen flesh. He pressed a kiss to his blue lips, and then the underside of his damp jaw. Merlin felt a brief, pleasant tingle of warmth where Brom's mouth brushed over his skin.

As he began to thaw out a bit, the warmth from Brom's body atop his seeped down into him like he were a parasite leeching it from the other man. Merlin felt a familiar surge of disgust threaten to rise up and consume him, and he had to take a moment to force it away. He always had a moment of it when they played this game - the game where he was rendered cold and incapacitated and lay there like a corpse, while Brom fucked the warmth back into his body.

He'd protested violently the first time Brom had wanted to do this, thoroughly repulsed by the idea of roleplaying a _corpse_. Brom, of course, had eventually gotten his way. He always did. Eventually Merlin had to admit that if he didn't think about the reason behind _why_ Brom liked to do play this game, it was immensely erotic. Depraved, yes; but terribly, terribly erotic, all the same.

Merlin felt the pressure of Brom's fingers probing his entrance, coated and slick with some of that Rom oil they were running low on. He let go of his disgust, swallowing it down and burying it like he buried so many other things. His life had become full of bumps and jagged angles; wherever he turned, he was bruised. So he adapted.

He learned to _like_ the bruises.

Brom pushed into him after little preparation, knowing his body was still numb. Merlin scarcely registered the feel of Brom's thick cock inside him, but he knew later he would be sore.

It was just how he liked it.

**-VVV-**

Early afternoon found Merlin twisted in sweat-dampened sheets, hair tousled, skin reddened and tolerably sore from a good, thorough fucking. He felt lazy, the room spun a little, the walls pulsing in the corners of his vision as heat slid over him with sickening relentlessness. He kicked the covers off of him, a sigh of relief worming from between his lips as the faintest of breezes trickled in through the open window and tickled his skin.

The collar around his neck was at least a little cooler than his body, and Merlin slid his fingers along its curve absently, as he often did when he was lost in thought. It'd become something of a habit the longer he wore it - the more he got used to the feel of it snug around his throat. He used to think of it as something degrading, the possessive fingers of a lover jealously choking him in a leathery grip. Now, however, it made him feel special, like he was something so cherished that Brom needed keep him close with lock and key.

For some reason, the knowledge that he was prized and openly cherished, made it okay that he was viewed by others as a possession - as Brom's. A year ago he would have riled against it. Now Merlin found it just nice to be _wanted_...to be appreciated...to be claimed and jealously guarded.

How things had changed.

Merlin let his thoughts turn elsewhere as he spoke a word of magic and sent a glass of tepid water floating over to him. He spoke another to magically cool it - a similar incantation as he'd used on the bathwater earlier - and then plucked it from where it hovered in the air. He promptly splashed it across his face. Tendrils of wet, dark hair spiked around his face, framing it, and he closed his eyes and concentrated on the rivulets of cool liquid that sloshed down his chin and neck.

_Arthur was coming today._

The thought barrelled through the relative peace of his mind like a mad bull and demanded his attention at long last. He'd been avoiding thinking about it, even though he'd known for the better part of a week that Arthur was scheduled to be in Darlington for an indeterminate amount of time. Brom had made sure the knowledge was ingrained onto him, licked across the back of his thighs in stripes of angry, raised welts. _'A reminder,'_ Brom had said - a reminder that Merlin was his and his alone.

Not Arthur's. Not anymore. Merlin had promised that it was so. He'd cried out that he understood. He'd told Brom that he loved him as he was worked, pliant and supple, beneath the reddened edge of a straight-razor.

For the most part it was true. Still, there was a faint echo of something long-buried that managed to crawl up from the deepest crevices of his heart when his thoughts were unguarded. A feeling pinched him - hard - like the pinch of a child's fingers on the underside of his arm, whenever he thought Arthur's name.

_Arthur._

He daren't say it aloud, just in case Brom heard him; just in case the sound fit too comfortably into the groove of his tongue. Brom's was the only name that should fill his mouth, coat his throat, and settle into his belly. Brom's was the only name that should matter.

Yet with Arthur, came history.

Merlin's cock began to lift as he imagined what Arthur looked like now. He wondered if a year had changed him at all, or if he would still be the same boldly handsome man that he remembered. Time, manipulation, and a need to persevere had faded Arthur's image from Merlin's mind like a tapestry that had been bleached by the sun. Still, he could remember flashes of blue eyes, sometimes hard with determination, other times lit with a keen amusement that rendered them positively stunning.

Merlin let one hand wander down to his hardening cock and stroked it lightly. He grazed his thumb gently over the head, and rubbed a bit harder over the already glistening slit. He spread his legs.

Behind the lids of his closed eyes he saw a glimpse of sunshine-blonde hair, loose and ruffled by the wind.

Merlin squeezed himself tighter and jerked his wrist, bringing his cock to full hardness as he began to stroke himself with more urgency. He turned a little so he could slide his other hand beneath him. His long fingers tenderly fingered his puckered hole, still sore from where Brom had fucked him senseless earlier. He slicked two fingers with saliva, drawing them in and out of his mouth until they were sufficiently wet, and then carefully worked his middle finger inside of himself.

He recalled the masculinity of Arthur's hands, strong fingers and sturdy thick wrists girdled by the leather cuff and metal bracelet he almost always wore. He tried to remember how they felt against his body, his palms warm, dry, and rough as they pressed down on his shoulders, pushing him down, down, _down_.

He couldn't.

Merlin pumped his fist faster and slid his finger all the way into himself, moaning as he added the second. He arched into his fist and slid back onto his fingers, his orgasm coiling in his belly. He panted in anticipation. His mouth hung open, his shoulders pressed back onto the bed as he pistoned his hips up and down, alternately fucking up into his fist and impaling himself on his fingers.

The door to the bedroom opened and Merlin slowed but didn't stop, too far gone to hold off his orgasm now. A weight settled next to him on the bed. He didn't open his eyes.

"By all means, don't stop because of me," said Brom, his voice as cool and smooth as silk and brushed with subtle amusement. Hearing it drove Merlin into a frenzy of action, his lust overtaking him like a heatwave. He couldn't deny the silent demands of that voice; the steeliness beneath the velvet tones. He'd been trained to respond to it.

His fantasy warped. Arthur's image vanished, buried beneath the enormity of Brom's presence like it always was. As Merlin came, crying out raggedly as he shoved his fingers deep into himself and spilled his seed onto his stomach, he didn't much care.

When he'd caught his breath enough to breathe evenly, Merlin opened his eyes and saw Brom staring fixedly at him, silently devouring him with his gaze. His breath caught and he was overcome with something he'd only recently learned to accept. Merlin leaned up and wound his arms around Brom's neck, pulling him down for a sloppy kiss which the other man allowed. It seemed to please him. Merlin smiled to himself as he sucked on Brom's tongue.

He loved Brom. He did. He had to.

**-VVV-**

The Rom encampment was a different world, full of swindlers, theives, and little children with grass-stained knees. At least that was what Brom would have him believe, but Merlin saw beneath all of that. He saw the strong ties the Rom people had to one another - the fierce loyalties and the emphasis on the tribe as familial unit. He saw them for what they were: a large family, part of a bigger whole. He saw them as people who sought to eke out their existence, just like the rest of them.

This tribe, however, had a sickness - a problem that was jammed right into the heart of them. That problem was Emiliel. Even Merlin could see that. The big Rom was just a few steps above a common bully. He used his size and his aggressiveness to his advantage - and his status as bandoleer - to push his tribe into thieving from the merchants who came to trade with Darlington.

_"But actually," Brom had said once, leafing through the latest report of looting along the Merchant's Walk (the main road into Darlington), "Emiliel is not the real problem." When Merlin had given him a questioning look, Brom had only offered a languid shrug and said, "It's that woman of his, Mirella. She may not be a mastermind, but there's more to her than meets the eye." Brom paused and carefully stacked the papers on his desk. A slow, cruel grin spread across his face. "She will of course have to be _dealt_ with - in due time."_

Emiliel and Mirella were problems because they couldn't just be killed outright. If that were to happen Darlington ran the risk of the rest of the tribe ransacking the outlying borough, or worse yet, the Rom King and Queen sending in other families to ransack both the outer _and_ inner borough.

Merlin had little doubt that with enough numbers, it could be done. Darlington wasn't a fortress after all. It wasn't Camelot.

Duke Aurelianus had tried negotiations, but what the Rom wanted was land and the Duke was unwilling to give it to them - at least the pieces of land they had their eyes on, which were the best farmlands of the outer borough. The Rom had settled anyway, cutting off the main road into the town and hindering the trade upon which Darlington relied heavily. The people of the outer borough, who, through a bond-tenant relationship worked for those who lived within the inner borough, had become progressively uneasy with the growing number of Rom pushing in on their borders.

There had been complaints.

Brom's idea was simpler than his father's: exterminate the lot of them, down every last man, woman, and child. It would send a message to the other Rom tribes that death awaited those who tried to settle there. It would teach Darlington's enemies that they had the power to eradicate those who didn't abide by the Duke's wishes.

That power, of course, was Merlin.

Merlin refused when Brom told him to do it, which had resulted him being punished - severely. It'd left him with all of his fingers broken and a dislocated shoulder, and when he'd healed himself, Brom broke all of those fingers again. He'd endured it with no retaliation, because he knew if Brom punished him somebody else would be spared his cruelty.

He'd gotten used to the pain. He could suffer a few broken bones now and then. It was better than what Brom _could_ do. And Brom always made it up to him, coming round to stroke his hair and pepper soft kisses on bruises, cuts, and healing bones as he whispered, "My Merlin, my beloved," into the folds of his skin.

Merlin bore his punishment because he had to, and he told himself that was reason enough.

**-VVV-**

Brom leaned towards him, the sun picking out the many varying shades of reds and browns from his hair as a loose strand brushed his jaw. Merlin forgot all thought for a moment as he leaned towards Brom as well, his eyes drawn to the stray twist of hair. There was something just fascinating about Brom; he was interesting in the manner of which a predator was interesting right before it pounced.

"They're waving chicken feet at you again," Brom purred, his voice the sound of honey dripping over steel wire. It was also thick with amusement. Merlin leaned away, frowning, not amused at all.

"I wish they wouldn't," he muttered, straightening a little and glancing around. "I'm not that scary."

"Aren't you?" stated Brom, enigmatically. He chuckled as Merlin sent a little girl skittering away in fright when he smiled at her. "Now what is this?" Brom stood in his stirrups and peered over a dense crowd that had clustered in the middle of the camp. He grinned suddenly, a wide, foxy grin that was immensely pleased. "Ah," he said, "it looks like our dearest Arthur has arrived."

Merlin's head snapped up, perhaps a little too quickly because Brom shot him a penetrating, harsh glance. "Remember your place, _beloved_," he sneered condescendingly, his voice colder than the water he'd sat in earlier that day. Merlin didn't wince, but he did avert his eyes and bite his tongue.

Brom went on ahead. Merlin waited for a moment, composing himself, before joining him.

He was ready for this - he was. He had to be.

**-VVV-**

It was difficult keep from immediately looking towards Arthur, but Merlin managed to. He was acutely aware of the eyes of the Rom on him. He could sense the tension that laced the air like as if it were a physical presence, as soon as he'd announced himself. He was also aware of Arthur's weighty gaze pulling at him, willing him to glance over and meet his eyes. Merlin swallowed and lifted his chin, letting his shoulders fall back in a show of easy confidence. He reached out and was rewarded when Brom let him take his hand, loosely entwining their fingers in a show of intimacy, also reaffirming his status.

_"Companion,"_ Emiliel mocked again, his thick lips splitting wide with a peal of laughter, while Pal and Pov chortled with him, obediently. Pov paused to leer openly, making no mistake that his dark gaze mapped the contours of Merlin's body beneath his clothing. The way the lithe Rom leered made Merlin feel exposed, like he were being thrust up against his horse and fucked in front the middle of the encampment.

He didn't like it. He turned his head, away from Arthur and his knights, and looked directly at the trio. Then he let his magic bleed into his eyes, coloring them gold.

Pal blanched, backing away and clutching a charm he pulled from his pocket. The leer was effectively wiped off of Pov's face, to be replaced by a disgusted look, as if he'd discovered something foul in his mouth. Emiliel paled, a bit of color draining from his dusky cheeks. Something that sounded like a rumble of thunder grumbled in his chest. Merlin assumed it was a growl.

The Rom took a collective step back. Emiliel glanced at Mirella, who, while ashen, was giving Brom a look of utter hate. She looked like a cat whose hackles were raised. Merlin was surprised she didn't hiss. He let his magic ebb, a corner of his mouth pulling downwards as it relinquished him a shade unwillingly. His eyes turned blue again, and he swore he could hear many of the Rom sigh in relief.

Next to him, Brom released his hand and instead lifted it to card those talented fingers through Merlin's dark hair. Unconsciously, Merlin sighed and leaned into the touch. "We'll be going now," stated Brom, and let his hand drop from Merlin's head. He turned his eyes towards Arthur and the knights, gracing them with a toothy, insincere grin. "And them too - they are guests of Darlington, after all." He began to turn his horse into the path that suddenly opened for them, when he paused and looked back towards Emiliel with an apologetic smile that failed to reach his eyes. "I do apologize," he said, his tone that of steel slicing through velvet, "but I forgot that I'm here on two counts of business. Escort," he said, gesturing flippantly towards Arthur, "and a purchase. You know, you Rom have the best oil. It gets my _companion_ all riled up."

Merlin felt himself flush angrily as some of the Rom snickered, but his hands were steady as he caught the small jar that one of the Rom merchants practically threw at him before backing hastily away. The man clutched something in his hand, and when Merlin squinted, he saw it was a chicken foot. He forgot his embarrassment for a moment and rolled his eyes.

"How much do we owe you," Merlin asked in a polite voice. Mirella snaked forward, leaning around Emiliel's considerable girth, and jabbed a finger at him. She looked exceedingly wild in that moment, her hair a tangled bird's nest, clouded around her face.

"Just take it and be gone, _chovahano_. Rid us of your pestilence."

Brom only chuckled nastily, but instead of a retort he glanced at Merlin and crooked his finger. "Come beloved, let us away from here and wash the filth of the place from our bodies."

Merlin held his head high as he clicked his tongue and guided his horse after Brom's. Finally, as they wended their way past the outskirts of the encampment, he risked a glance backward at Arthur, Arthur looked back at him with a hard expression lingering deep in his eyes, almost as if he didn't recognize at whom he was staring. A jolt of realization sparked through him then, and Merlin abruptly turned his face away and looked forward, towards home - towards Darlington.

Arthur looked at him as if he were a stranger. And Merlin realized it was because that was exactly what he had become.

(To be continued...)


	5. Presenting the Past

**A/N:** I honestly have no excuse for the length of time between chapters. I lost track of this story for awhile, but it's never been forgotten. My goal (with the help of my lovely beta) is to go through and tie up all the WIP's I have in my google docs this year, so slowly but surely, this fic will be completed. I've actually had this chapter finished for a long time and just hadn't posted it. If I have anyone who is still following this story, I appreciate your dedication more than words can say and I hope you find that each chapter is worth the wait. More is to come - I can't give you a definitive timeline, so all I ask is that you trust me and enjoy the ride. :)

**Part Four - "Presenting the Past"**

**-VVV-**

Brom once told Merlin a story when he was threaded deep in the grip of withdrawals. The tale was about a man who journeyed to the Underworld in search of his dead lover's soul. In order to return her to the world of the living, the Lord of Underworld told him that he had to pass a test. The test was simple: Walk from the Underworld without once looking back. If he could make the journey without once glancing behind, he would be reunited with his lover on the surface.

It sounded so easy. Thus, the man began his tedious journey from the deep within the womb of the Underneath towards the exit - towards the light, towards the living.

As he walked the souls of the damned dogged his footsteps, shades and ghosts that plucked at the back of his shirt with fingers that had long forgotten the touch of skin. They sang to him, lamenting their despair in ballads of mournful screams - chorus of the damned, hauntingly beautiful as their voices splashed against the walls. There was something which begged to be listened to twined beneath their moans and sobs, a lullaby of such delicate sadness that resonated which never fell trapped by their insubstantiality. Their breath was cold on his cheeks and fetid on his lips. They stumbled in and out of his path drunkenly, lost children drawn to the beat of his mortal heart. Every soul begged to be saved. They grasped at him, fingers leaving unidentifiable smears on his clothing and skin. Their scent infused his hair with the smell of rot and decay. They pandered to him, twisted promises curled around dry tongues. When that failed they wheezed their threats.

The man was resolute, however. He kept moving forward, never once glancing back. He kept his eyes ahead, fixated blindly on the exit he couldn't yet see. Just beyond that, he'd be reunited with his beloved.

Eventually the souls fell away and left him in silence. The man continued walking. Gradually, he became aware of another pair of footsteps echoing his every stride - softer and lighter, like the steps of a woman. The footsteps paused when he paused, skipped when he skipped, stumbled when he stumbled.

The man's resolve began to waiver; perhaps the faint echoes he heard were the footfalls of his beloved, following along behind him! The echoing footsteps rustled against the walls, loud in his ears, as the ground began to slope upwards towards the surface of the world - towards freedom.

Soon the exit was in sight. A few more feet and the man would be clear of the Underworld and be united with the woman he loved. However, at the very end, unable to ignore the possibility of his beloved right behind him, the man turned.

There was no one there. And when he was finally free of the Underworld, he was greeted by the caress of the sun's fingers along his cheeks - and nothing else. He'd failed.

Merlin always wondered why, with his salvation in sight the man had failed. He couldn't understand the difficulty in simply _not_ turning back; not looking over his shoulder. He never understood - until right now.

It took Merlin every iota of his will to keep from looking over his shoulder and at Arthur riding behind him. Merlin could hear the clink of Arthur's armor as he shifted atop his horse. He could hear the low burr of his voice whenever he said something to one of his knights, drifting through the hot air to settle heavily onto his ears. Arthur was _right there_, so close, but Merlin didn't look.

He wouldn't look, even though the pull to look at him tugged insistently, like fingers fisted in his hair. Instead, he looked at Brom and Brom looked back at him. He could see the scrutiny in his eyes, waiting - patient as a snake about to strike - for him to make a wrong move. He watched him with a focused intensity that made Merlin shiver with equal parts anticipation and dread; with Brom, he never knew if he was going to be rewarded or punished.

While at one time he might have preferred the carrot to the stick, most days he actually hoped for the punishment. Most days he craved the stripes of pain licked across his skin, claiming him, marking him - possessing him. He and pain had come to an understanding, a relationship balanced delicately on a razor's edge. Brom's mouth curved into a thoughtful smile, secretive, one that Merlin liked to believe was shared for him alone. He reached up and let the tips of his fingers brush the bottom edge of the collar - a habitual gesture, the cured softness of the leather reassuring beneath the pads of his fingers.

Brom's eyes absently tracked the motion of Merlin's fingers, though his expression was almost ruminative - as if he were remembering the way they felt as he broke them, over and over. Merlin's fingers convulsed in memory as he too recalled the way it felt. He remembered the flare pain that stopped the air in his lungs, and the ache that he still felt when the bite of winter filled the air. He then remembered the aftermath, the kisses laid atop bruises for days afterward; the constant throb of healing bones offset by the keen edge of pleasure.

All too soon, Darlington loomed up before them. When they finally arrived at the stables, when Merlin could safely look at Arthur, he found that he didn't want to.

-VVV-

"Where is your father?" asked Arthur of Brom. They walked side by side along the estate grounds as the party headed towards the manor from the stables. Merlin trailed behind them both, aware of the knights lingering with him on either side. He knew these knights - or had known them at least - and he felt their glances, flat with censure and curiosity as they slid over him. Once or twice he thought he heard one of them - Sir Osric, maybe - open their mouth to say something, but the words never came.

"He will be returning in a few days," replied Brom. His silky voice drew Merlin's attention immediately and he looked towards him, eyes fixed to the sweat-slicked, exposed skin of Brom's neck. He wanted to suck the moisture from the back of it, taste salt and musk slide down his throat - taste the lingering flavor smeared on his bottom lip, hours later. Next to him, one of the knights grumbled disapprovingly, perhaps noticing the quickness of his stare or the lust that flickered around the edges of his vision as he stared hungrily at Brom's back.

Merlin told himself he hardly cared, though he shifted his gaze elsewhere, nonetheless.

"And aren't you lucky, my prince," he sneered, a corner of his mouth twitching upwards, "my father thinks you deserving of a banquet in honour of your arrival." Brom chuckled and locked eyes with Arthur, as Arthur turned to him with an annoyed grimace.

"My knights and I thank you for your hospitality," said Arthur through gritted teeth, "but that will be unnecessary." Brom only shrugged and breezed through the double doors to the manor as the guards pulled them open to admit them.

"Don't be a spoil sport, Arthur," Brom said with a vulpine smile, "everyone likes a good party. Don't you remember what _fun_ we both had at the last banquet we attended?" One of Brom's reddish brows twitched upwards in cruel amusement, as he watched Arthur closely for his reaction.

Merlin saw Arthur's back stiffen and his shoulders draw taut - he remembered the sign, if vaguely. It was a sign that Arthur's temper was quickly rising, ready to break the surface with the fury of Leviathan. Merlin waited for the explosion of anger, for the quickly-snapped insult and flash of heat he could now recall and once knew quite well. Surprisingly, none came.

Arthur, still rigid, nonetheless managed to reply to Brom in a steady, cool tone. "If that is your father's wish," he said evenly, "then so be it."

Merlin saw a fleeting expression of suspicion flit across Brom's face when he turned and motioned sharply for Merlin to join him at his side. The expression disappeared quickly enough for it to have been imagined, though Merlin knew Brom and therefore he knew better. Brom placed his hand on his arm, his fingers a vice around his flesh - a warning. Merlin didn't flinch, but he felt a lurch in his stomach when Brom regarded him from the corner of one green eye, a shrewd smile playing about his lips. It was not a kind smile, not by any means.

"I'm sure you and your knights are tired from your journey," Brom stated. "I will have Leofrick assign you a manservant to attend to you for the duration of your stay. Or," Brom let his hand drop from Merlin's arm to rest lightly upon the distinct angle of his hip, "might you prefer if you used Merlin? You know, for nostalgia's sake?"

Arthur flinched from Brom's words like the jagged edges of his grin had physically cut him. He looked at Merlin and Merlin looked back, absorbed by the conflict he saw warring openly on Arthur's face. There was so much emotion there, all of it tangled in Byzantine knots; all of it too complicated for Merlin to decipher.

Merlin felt things long suppressed - things that he was supposed to have forgotten - loosen from the base of his spine and begin to branch through him, awakening nodes of memory so intense, that it made each nerve ending feel chafed and raw. A sense of dread awakened in him, so poignant and so startling, that Merlin felt sick with the significance of it. He'd worked so hard to sever what he'd felt for Arthur: he'd loved him at one point, and he'd loved him with every inch of himself that he'd had to give. But Merlin had paid for that love in bruises which bloomed in a patchwork of black and blue over every soft spot on his body. He'd paid for that love in scars and cuts; and in turn he'd been reimbursed with blood and pain so keen, he'd at times forgotten his own name.

He had sweat Arthur from the pores of his skin, bled the feel of him from his veins; he had let Brom fill the spaces that Arthur used to fill instead, and to let all of that go, to have all of that shaken with just one look from Arthur...

Merlin felt fear settle coldly on his tongue and spike sharply through his veins. He couldn't do it. He couldn't risk shaking the foundation of all he'd built; of all he'd _had_ to build to protect his own sanity. He just couldn't. Not now. It was simply too late.

Merlin spoke before Arthur could answer, turning away from the emotion, from the history - from the past. "No," he said firmly, glancing to his side, his eyes only for Brom, "I won't serve anybody but _you_." Boldly, he rested his hand atop Brom's where it lay curved on his hip. "_Please_," he said, imploringly. He wouldn't go back to that with Arthur. He wouldn't risk shattering the tenuous life he'd become accustomed to in Darlington. It wasn't perfect, but it was _his_, he'd adapted, and he'd learned to love it.

He'd learned to love Brom. And that was enough for him.

Merlin knew Arthur was looking at him and he forced himself not to care. This is how it would have to be. It was easier that way.

"It's settled then," Brom announced, a deep burr of pleasure stitched between his words. "Ah, here comes Leofrick." Brom removed himself from Merlin's side to confer with the steward. After a moment, the pull too great, Merlin lifted his chin and looked towards Arthur. Arthur's eyes were on him, his face closed over, glassy, devoid of emotion - almost. Merlin could see the hurt that was deeply sunken into his light blue eyes; hurt that he could see wasn't fresh but months old, ingrained into his irises. It was tinted with the colour of betrayal, too bright around the edges to be old. Arthur's lips moved and Merlin shook his head quickly, once.

_'Not right now, Arthur,'_ he thought silently. _'Not ever. Not again. I can't. I won't.'_

Brom's velvet, steel-smoothed tones cut across Merlin's thoughts. "Leofrick will show you to your rooms." Merlin quickly looked away from Arthur and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, warming the slide of leather beneath his palm reminding him of his place, his life, of who he was now. _Of who he had become._ Merlin shook his head slightly and watched as Leofrick escorted Arthur and his knights towards the guest wing, where they would be provided with room and whatever services they required.

Arthur didn't look back at him once.

-VVV-

Brom was silent at Merlin's side as they walked in nigh perfect rhythm towards Brom's bedroom - Merlin's was a smaller, adjoining one to Brom's large living quarters, as befitting a manservant. It was well known, though, that more often than not he shared Brom's bed. Actually, past the first few months, Merlin couldn't remember sleeping anywhere else. Brom's bed was comfortable and Merlin had learned to appreciate the feeling of a hot body fit against his when he woke in the mornings. And that's what it came down to with him and Brom: They fit together exceedingly well, a jigsaw of arms and legs and touches bold, darting, daring. Over time, he'd slowly realized it and learned to accept it.

It wasn't long before he'd been unable to imagine it any other way.

Of course, it had been too hot for comfort as of late, and Brom more often than not kicked him out of bed to go sleep in his own. He stated that he couldn't stand the way Merlin's skin was glued to him when he woke. Strangely enough, Merlin had been sleeping poorly in his own bed. He'd gotten too used to Brom's deep, steady breathing as a backdrop while he slept and the weight of his arm draped possessively across his stomach. He tossed and turned when he was alone, feeling like a ship without an anchor. Only the constant heft of the collar quieted him, a metallic kiss of reassurance in the darkness.

"You could barely take your eyes off of him," Brom said suddenly, cutting through Merlin's thoughts. His voice was deceivingly casual. There was no jealousy in his tone either; merely a statement of fact. Merlin wasn't fooled. He glanced at Brom and even though Brom's eyes were trained ahead of him, Merlin knew he was being watched closely.

"I - no, well," he broke off, his words scattered immediately when Brom grasped him by the arm and yanked him roughly into one of the alcoves that lined the hallway. Merlin held his breath as Brom pushed flush against him, back to front, his forearm an iron bar across his chest. He could feel the hard contours of Brom's body at his back and the tendons of his forearm roll and shift as he tightened it to hold him still. He took a wide stance and pressed back against Brom, a thrill of excitement and anticipation traveling through his body in response to the rough treatment.

He needed it. He deserved it.

Brom pulled at his ear with his teeth, the heat from his body seeping through Merlin's clothes to slide underneath his skin. Merlin groaned as he burned from inside out. He wanted to be consumed, engulfed, _used_. He felt Brom hitch up his shirt and drag his nails slowly up his side. Brom dug his thumb between each rib, counting them, until he reached Merlin's nipple. His palm brushed over the nub and Merlin hissed in pain when Brom roughly pinched it between two fingers and twisted slightly. He treated the other nipple to the same action and Merlin palmed himself through his trousers as the pain began to bleed into pleasure.

"I wonder," Brom mused silkily against the flushed skin of Merlin's neck, "what Arthur would think if he found you like this, touching yourself and panting like a whore at my hands." Merlin let his head fall back onto Brom's shoulder so he could crane his neck and offer his mouth to him. Brom accepted and devoured him greedily, his tongue pushing forcibly past his lips; all dominance and no give. Merlin let himself be swallowed by the heat that burned his back. He let himself be turned and pushed against the wall, hands pinned above his head so Brom could assault his mouth more thoroughly. He jerked his hips and let out a long, low moan as Brom bit down on his bottom lip and drew blood.

"Well Merlin?" Brom pressed, lifting one brow. His mouth hovered above Merlin's swollen, wet mouth. The air was thick with their shared breath and Merlin felt momentarily dizzy from lack of oxygen before Brom dropped his head. He lifted Merlin's shirt higher so he could tug a reddened nipple between his teeth, his lips hot and slick with saliva and blood.

Merlin gasped out his answer, thrusting against Brom's leg which he'd inserted between his own. "It'd," he groaned as Brom grabbed his arse and squeezed, "it'd repulse him." Brom paused what he was doing and gave Merlin an appraising look. Merlin writhed beneath the fire in Brom's gaze; the way it scalded him was as delicious as hot wax dripped over his skin.

"What would it do for _you_?" Brom asked, brushing a wet tendril of dark hair behind Merlin's ear. He tilted forward and let Merlin rub against him. His voice was gruff, honey oozed over razor wire when he spoke again. "Would my beloved enjoy an audience?"

Merlin shivered and realized that he would. "Yes," he replied. Brom kissed his forehead and Merlin leaned into the gentle touch. This was what made it worth it - this is what allowed him to keep going: these moments of tenderness. He felt emotion swell within him and he pressed himself closer to Brom. He could feel Brom smile against his hair but he drew away from him, a moment later.

When Merlin looked at him, he saw that Brom's gaze was sharp with thought - he was planning something. Merlin swallowed thickly and rubbed himself absently, still hard and throbbing. Brom grabbed his wrists and pushed them up above his head again. He wasn't gentle - there would be bruises there later, pressed in a five-fingered mark. Merlin could already feel the telltale ache of them forming. "Don't you _dare_ come until I say so," Brom said icily, no trace of warmth in his voice.

Merlin nodded mutely, gasping for breath that escaped his lungs too quickly when Brom rolled his hips against his. Merlin could feel Brom's hardness slide against his own, creating some of the delicious friction that he craved. He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth and worked the cut there open further, using the pain to anchor his pleasure and stave off his orgasm. Abruptly, Brom released his wrists and pulled away. He smoothed his hands down the front of his shirt and Merlin watched the motion hungrily, though he too straightened when Brom shot him a pointed look.

"I've business to attend to," Brom stated. His voice was matter-of-fact, his breathing even, as if just a second ago he hadn't been seconds away from fucking Merlin against the wall in the middle of the mansion. Not that it would've been the first time, either, but Merlin couldn't help but feel a little disappointed. He frowned, though he mimicked Brom's movements and arranged his clothing as best he could, which turned out not to be much of an improvement at all.

Brom reached out and fixed the collar around his neck, his thumb resting lightly against the hollow of Merlin's throat. Merlin stilled. "You know I love you," Brom said in a soft, dangerous tone. "Don't do anything to disappoint me." His voice slid between Merlin's ribs, sinking into his veins, gentle but sharp, all at once.

Merlin caught Brom's hand and pressed it harder against his throat, pushing it against the vulnerable spot until he could feel the Brom's pulse throb against his esophagus. "I know," he replied. "I love you, too."

Brom smiled then, pleased, but it was still cold. A tingle sped down Merlin's spine; there was the promise of pain between Brom's teeth. Merlin's cock throbbed at the prospect, before he remembered what Brom had said. "Go and tend to the horses then," Brom ordered as he turned away from him. "And make sure you come and wash up before dinner...you know I can't stand the smell of you when you've been in the stables."

Brom walked away without another word and Merlin felt color flame on his cheeks. He clenched his teeth: Brom hadn't ever made him tend to any stable duties since he first arrived. This was a clear lesson in humiliation.

With a reluctant sigh, Merlin headed towards the stables.

-VVV-

The interior of the stables was dark and cool, but the heat of the day still hadn't relinquished its hold entirely. Merlin could still feel it burrow into the sweat that beaded in his hairline; he sucked in a hot breath and tasted the thickness of it in the bottom of his lungs. The horses were lethargic, munching drowsily on oats. They lifted their heads in mild interest when he entered, though none paid him much mind past a curious twist of the ear. Only one stuck its head out its stall and whickered softly in recognition.

"Hello, Llamrei," Merlin greeted softly. He brushed his fingers over her velvet-soft nose and grinned a little when the mare inspected the flat of his palm for treats. "Sorry girl," he said apologetically, "no apples today." She snorted in apparent displeasure but allowed him into her stall without a fuss, nevertheless.

Merlin stroked his hand down her neck, just as he had done when he'd known her in Camelot. He picked out the curry brush from the bucket hanging outside of the stall door and began to rub her down in small, circular motions starting with her neck. Llamrei tossed her head once, then settled, submitting to the grooming as Merlin began to work his way down to her withers and shoulders. "Has Arthur been treating you well?" he asked.

Llamrei answered by flicking her tail and shifting her bulk. Merlin laughed softly and smoothed down her forelock. "Good to hear," he said. He wiped his forearm across his brow and felt the dirt and grime settle deeply into his skin. Brom would no doubt demand that he take at least two baths before dinner, at this rate. He continued to rub down Llamrei, finding the simple task a welcome distraction from the heat and the tightness in his belly that had not yet been relieved. It also allowed his thoughts to wander.

They touched upon Arthur, of course, and for the first time Merlin allowed himself to wonder what the last year had been like for _him_.

"Even after a whole year and you _still_ can't groom a horse properly."

Merlin didn't turn to look at Arthur. His jaw clenched and he continued what he was doing, deciding not to answer. The consequences were not worth his time, should he choose to follow this line of conversation. Besides, he could tell that Arthur was baiting him.

"I'd think, _Mer_lin," Arthur began - Merlin's fingers tightened over the brush - "that Brom would have taught you better than that." Merlin could hear the bitterness in Arthur's voice. he ignored it. "After all," he continued, "he seems to have you well trained."

Merlin finally turned, as rage he hadn't realized he still held onto exploded in his chest. He fixed Arthur with a sour look, his eyes narrowed to slits. "I've learned to adapt, _my lord_," he replied in a low, venomous tone. Arthur flinched back from his words, the bitterness draining a bit from his expression.

The flintiness in his eyes softened. "Merlin," he began but Merlin shook his head stubbornly and turned back to Llamrei.

"Don't, Arthur," he said, speaking his name for the first time, "don't. I don't need you anymore." He paused, and slid his hand gently through Llamrei's silky mane and concentrated on working out a stubborn snarl with a few deft twists and pulls of his fingers. "I haven't needed you for a long time," he muttered, a bare whisper of sound that was swallowed by the tension in the air.

Merlin heard Arthur begin to say something, an angry protest perhaps, when the stall door opened and Arthur strode into the small space with him. Merlin continued to brush out Llamrei's coat with long, sure strokes, ignoring him, until he felt Arthur's fingers fold over his own atop the brush.

"You're still doing it wrong," said Arthur low into his ear. His voice was rough and a tremor ran through it, as if he were holding back a flood of words that he wished to say. It was at that moment that Merlin realized he wasn't the only one to have changed in a year's time.

(To be continued...)


End file.
